


The Promega Sonata

by Ludwiggle73



Series: The Eurasia Duology [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha wolves, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Drama & Romance, F/M, FACE Family, Fisting, Gay Sex, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Multi, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Birds, Omega Verse, Out of Character, Politics, Proceed with caution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexism, Shapeshifting, This fic is like a crime scene, War, What did i do to my poor iggy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2018-12-31 09:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 24
Words: 86,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12129348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: King Francis Bonnefoy seeks a new mate to give him an Alpha son. Arthur Kirkland just might be the Omega he's looking for... but a life of servitude is not what Arthur wants for himself. He and Lovino Vargas both believe that Omegas must fight for their rights, but what are they willing to risk in the name of equality?[FrUK. Spamano. GerIta. DenNor. SuFin. AusHun. Engmano.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally posted on FFN, but I had to take it down because they couldn't handle the inherent drop-dead sexiness of Alpha France slamming into Omega England. Their loss, I say! :D
> 
> This is a slow-burn, but it'll get juicier as it goes along. Also, please take note: here be OOC-ness for some of the Hetalians. (If you don't like an England who giggles, this might not be the fic for you :P)
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> [Edit as of idk bunch o' months after writing this: ENGLAND IS SO OOC I COULD WEEP I'M SO SORRY TO MY BELOVED I REALLY DON'T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED. If I had the time to do it again I'd absolutely fix it but for now I just have to cringe and bear it. The writing and plotting and pacing of this has so many flaws... but I guess it's good to see how far I've come since this? Still. My sincerest apologies for the crimes of my past self -_-]

“As for the packs of Western Eurasia,

I must establish their stability:

In battle, they are solid

In hardship, they are sturdy

And in Tradition, they are firm—dangerously so.

It is my fear that if the State of things were challenged,

these Alpha-men would not bend, but break.

And what then?”

 _—Lukas Bondevik, writing to his brother_  

 

The birch grove absolutely gleamed in the pale morning light. It was all the colors of royalty: the silver trunks rising like narrow pillars to hold up the world, the leaves gold and flowing like coins, the ground a vibrant carpet of purple pansies. There was no sound, save for the soft coo of a mourning dove.

The dove was perched on the shoulder of a man who walked with the slow, stately assurance of a king. And, indeed, he was a king: Francis Bonnefoy, High Alpha of Western Eurasia. His blond, wavy hair sparkled in the sunlight, his blue gaze as bright as the sky above. He regarded the trees with a thoughtful pride, as if he had planted them rather than simply claimed the land on which they grew.

“A good place, _oui_ , _mon fils_?” He stroked the dove’s little head with a fond fingertip; the little brown bird cooed, closing his eyes in contentment. Francis chuckled. “Ah, wake up, Mathieu. It is time to fly, _cheri_.”

Gently, Francis cupped his hands beneath Matthew. He lifted the little dove up above his head, where Matthew hopped onto the branch. Matthew peered down at his father, his feathers ruffled in fright.

“It is alright, _mon fils_ ,” he assured his Omega son. “You jump, and flap your wings, and _viola_! You are flying.”

The little dove lingered on the branch, his tiny feet shuffling uncertainly.

Francis smiled sympathetically. “You know, if your mama was here, she would fly with you. But I am all you have, Mathieu. So you must trust me.” His gaze hardened slightly. “And I am an Alpha. I am your papa. So you must obey me. Fly.”

Matthew hesitated a moment longer, then spread his wings and took flight. He was unsteady at first, and dropped through the air more than once, but the breeze lifted him, and with a flurry of flapping wings, he flew through the grove.

Francis tipped his head back to laugh as the dove swooped around him, both of them joyful. “Well done, Mathieu! I am so proud of you, _cheri_.”

The moment of glee was broken by a sharp, snappish bark. The aggressive sound came from behind the king, who stiffened alertly, his heightened sense of hearing strained. He heard the leaves mingling, the blades of grass caressing each other, a mouse rooting about for seeds. And, beneath all these subtle noises, there was the near-silent rustle of air against the thick fur of a wolf just as it lunged.

The blond Alpha dove forward, arms outstretched, away from the attacker behind him—and when his hands hit the ground, they were no longer fingers and palms, but toes and paw pads, their blunt claws digging up and hurling back tufts of grass as he dashed through the birch grove.

He made it four bounding strides before a snarling beast clobbered him from behind, bowling him over. They crashed through a fern thicket, snarling and snapping, strands of saliva flying as a bright white teeth flashed savagely. Blue eyes wild with bloodlust, the king sank his fangs into his attacker’s ear. He would tear and kill to protect himself, and to protect his Omega son.

The brown wolf’s yelp rang out loudly enough that the golden Alpha backed off immediately. His opponent’s hazel eyes were bright with silent apology as he stepped slowly over to nuzzle the underside of the king’s jaw. The French Alpha gave a gentle lick to the Spaniard’s forehead, and the pair of them shifted to human form.

“I should know better than to attack you while you’re out with Matthew,” said Antonio, brushing bits of grass from his hands. “How are the flying lessons going?”

“They are going well. Mathieu is a brave little bird.” He held out a hand, and the dove flapped over to perch on it obediently. “How is your ear, _mon ami_?”

“Oh, I’ll live.” Antonio smiled at his friend, a hint of reproach creeping into his voice. “You’re going to spoil that Omega, Francis.”

Francis pursed his lips. “ _Non_ , I don’t think I will. Everyone gets a little coddled when they’re babies, Alpha or Omega. I’ll stop this soon, when his training begins. Don’t worry.”

“You pay me to worry.” Antonio crouched down, holding his arms out. “Come here, _sobrino_. Walk to Uncle Toni.”

Francis stooped down to let his son hop off his hand. On the ground, the dove gave a little shudder, and with a smooth ripple he shifted into his human form. He was a chubby toddler, and he nearly fell flat on his face as he made his unsteady way over to Antonio. Once he reached his uncle, the Spaniard’s fingers set to tickling him through his rose-colored gown, and Matthew giggled in delight.

Francis watched fondly. It was a shame his son’s mother had died giving birth; they would have made such a beautiful family, all of them golden-haired and blessed with eyes like pieces of fallen sky. _Ah well_ , he thought. _There’s no reason to grieve too deeply. She was just an Omega, and a female at that. Gilbert warned me that females cause more problems than they’re worth. What was that deformed female he knew once? Hungarian . . . Liza? Something like that . . ._

“A gold piece for your thoughts.”

Francis glanced down. Antonio was studying him with amused curiosity. Francis shook his head. “Nothing important. Did you want something, _mon ami_?”

Antonio nodded. “ _Si_ , I did want something.” His expression had grown serious, which was rare and rarely a good sign. He stood up, holding Matthew on his hip. “It’s time for you to find a new mate.”

Francis waved this away without hesitation. “There is plenty of time for that.” He reached to take his son back. “Come, Mathieu, let’s go get you a sweetmeat for your excellent flying skills.”

Matthew smiled sweeter than any candy, his violet eyes going squinty in the corners just like his father’s did. Francis smiled and started back toward the city.

Antonio was fast on his heels. “I don’t think there’s plenty of time, and neither does Gilbert. You’re already thirty, Francis. You need to have an Alpha son who can take your place. If you’re High Alpha when you’re past your prime—”

He stopped, because he knew Francis didn’t want to hear it. No old man could stay leader for long without being overthrown. It would just make the kingdom weak, both to outsides and to darkly ambitious Alphas within the borders. The last thing they needed was a civil war.

Francis scowled. It was unfair to shame a person for how they had been born, but he admitted in silence that it would have been much easier if Matthew was an Alpha. Not that he loved him any less for being an Omega, of course. He was his family. Alpha and Omega differences couldn’t come between the blood-ties of kin. That was one of Francis’s most firm beliefs. Unfortunately, not all those in his kingdom agreed.

“Francis.” Antonio stood in front of his king, arms crossed over his chest, a pleading light in his hazel eyes. “Please. Let me spread the message that you seek a mate.”

Francis regarded his friend, brow furrowed, for a long moment. He really didn’t want to initiate the fuss of searching for a suitable Omega, but he knew that, besides the hassle, it was a good idea. He needed someone to give him an Alpha son. He could use the assurance of status that came with claiming a mate. And he wouldn’t mind having a servant to fuck. How long had it been, four years? Yes, it had, because he hadn’t joined Gilbert and Antonio on their trips to the brothel out east since his deceased mate had gotten pregnant. God, time had flown. It would be nice to have someone to take his tensions out on again.

Francis nodded to the Spanish Alpha. “Alright. Spread the word. I want a line of our finest unclaimed Omegas in the grand hall tomorrow morning.”

Antonio’s face lit up with a wide grin. “Yes, sir.” He spun around, fell into his wolf form, and dashed off across the countryside, letting loose an excited howl. Answering calls went up, some far and some near, yowls and bays like one would hear at a hunting rally, their eagerness spreading like wildfire.

Surrounded by the song of his Alpha packmates, Francis couldn’t help but smile. Above, the pink light of dawn had given way to a cheerful blue. The breeze carried with it the scent of pollen, of youth, of new beginnings. Things were going to change soon, Francis was sure of it. He only hoped it would be for the better.


	2. Chapter 2

“The word ‘Pack’ has changed in meaning since its origin.

Once, a Pack was but an Alpha’s mate and children.

Now, a Pack is all those Alphas and Omegas living

in a High Alpha’s territory, or kingdom.

In order to avoid confusion, in these times I propose

to call an Alpha’s mate and spawn not a Pack, but a family.”

_—High Alpha Francis Bonnefoy, Royal Observations_

 

Five miles away, in a village far smaller than the kingdom’s capital, the summoning howl echoed. Alphas paused in their activities—chopping wood, tanning hides, repairing fences, to listen to the call. Those with their hands free shifted briefly in order to toss their heads back and howl an answer. Others simply exchanged glances of varied meaning: some looked optimistic, others rolled their eyes, and still others lowered their brows in a decisive, determined manner.

This last one applied to a red-haired Alpha currently seated at the table of what would be generously called a kitchen. His home, like the majority of those in the village, was made of logs under a thatched roof. It had but one room with a ladder leading to a tiny loft above. This one room was at once a kitchen, living area, and bedroom; his straw mattress was on the other side of the ladder. He’d built this home himself, by the sweat of his brow, and he was so proud of it. It was his greatest achievement, despite the home’s lack of greatness. He’d done one third of an Alpha’s natural purpose: build a den, find a mate, form a pack. As time passed with no sign of a mate, Alistair Kirkland grew undeniably bitter that he had no Omega to call his own.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He had an Omega. Like one might have a venereal disease.

Alistair heaved an irritated sigh. “Arthur, hurry up, for God’s sake. I could have gone out and killed a rabbit myself in the time it’s taking you to make breakfast.”

Arthur, his back turned toward his older brother as he fussed over the stove, seemed to tense up. Alistair couldn’t tell for sure; Arthur’s shoulders were so scrawny, they were the same size stiff as they were loose. Without looking back, Arthur asked, “What was that howl about? It didn’t sound like a hunt.”

Alistair snorted. Arthur was pathetic at hiding his true feelings, which Alistair had scolded him for countless times. He could tell, quite clearly, that Arthur was trying to steer the subject away from his lack of cooking skill, because it made him angry. That was the root of the problem: Omegas weren’t supposed to get angry. They were supposed to be docile, subservient, happy. And why not? What did Omegas have to be upset about? Alphas were the ones who actually did things. They provided and protected. The safety of Omegas and children was the responsibility of the Alphas. All Omegas had to do was look pretty. And Arthur couldn’t even do _that_.

“It wasn’t a hunt, it was a summons,” Alistair explained, exasperated, although in truth he was smug that his Alpha ears could unweave the message within a howl while it remained nonsense to Omegas. “The High Alpha is seeking a new mate. They’re lining up Omegas tomorrow morning.”

Arthur finally turned around, setting down a plate of cornbread and venison. Neither of these were cooked well, but they looked edible, at the very least.

“About time,” Alistair remarked, tearing a chunk of meat off with his teeth. “Fuck’s _sake_ ,” he said, voice muffled with food, “this shit’s tough as boot leather.”

Arthur glowered at him, arms crossed over his chest. Though he said nothing, the posture and expression spoke emphatically: _if you don’t bloody like it, make your own bloody food._

Alistair pointed his fork—which he probably wouldn’t use, for fear of seeming too dainty—at the Omega. “Don’t look at me or any Alpha like that, birdy, or they’ll bust your head in.”

Arthur let his arms drop to his sides, but he couldn’t keep the anger out of those green eyes—eyes that were, Alistair had to admit, his brother’s best feature. His body wasn’t too bad, though there were plenty of Omegas with smoother skin, wider hips, softer curves. Alistair wished he could howl and have a line of beautiful Omegas come to his door. _Damn king._ To get anywhere, you had to know somebody important or be born with royal blood.

But the summoning howl provided a rare exception to that rule, and damned if Alistair wasn’t going to take advantage of it.

He swallowed a bite of cornbread and said, “Make sure you keep yourself clean today. Actually, go bathe in the stream this evening. You better look your best for the line-up.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “Who said I was going?”

“I just did.” Alistair glared at the blond Omega, daring him to challenge his words. “You think I want you and your Heats around here for the rest of your life? Not bloody likely. Where would you go if I got a mate, ever think of that? I ain’t having you in here, stealing food from my sons. One Omega is enough.”

Of course, there was no rule against more than one Omega in a den. Some couples, try as they might, never wound up having an Alpha pup, and were left with numerous Omega nestlings. Still, it was unusual for Omegas to linger at home; it was best for them to be claimed as soon as possible. After all, family members couldn’t have sex together, and that was the only way to ease the discomfort of Heat. Not that the scent wasn’t tempting to Alpha kin . . .

Arthur had turned twenty this year. He’d been going into Heat every month since he was fourteen. It was about time somebody— _anybody, for God’s sake_ —claimed him.

Alistair could see that Arthur, beneath his thin veneer, was fuming with restrained frustration. But Arthur was learning, and he did not voice his complaints; there was no point, after all. If Alistair said he was going, he had to go. An Alpha spoke, an Omega acted accordingly. That was the way things were.

After a long pause, Arthur asked, “What makes you think King Francis will want me?”

Though it was hidden away, there was a tiny hope in Arthur. Maybe, just maybe, an Alpha would actually show kindness to him. After years of beratement, perhaps his big brother would finally pay him a compliment.

But Alistair just chewed another chunk of meat, shrugged, and said gruffly, “Might as well give it a try. Never know, maybe the king’s blind and deaf. Plus he has his own cooks in that castle of his, so he won’t care that you can’t make goddamn cornbread.” He leaned back in his chair. “Get me some milk, birdy.”

Arthur pressed his lips together, squeezing them with his teeth to keep the scream on the inside, where it belonged. For the millionth time since he was born, he wished he had been born an Alpha, so he could sit as an equal with his brother at the table. So he would be spoken to with automatic respect. And, most of all, so he wouldn’t have to meet King Francis tomorrow.

 _They’re all classy in the capital_ , he consoled himself. _Prettier and better-mannered than country folk like me. One of them will be chosen by the High Alpha. I don’t stand a chance._


	3. Chapter 3

“Strength and weakness. Dominance and submission.

The strength of the Alpha manifests as the Wolf:

Proud, cunning, brave, loyal.

The weakness of the Omega manifests as the Bird:

Flighty, cowardly, anxious, fickle.

Only by the rise of Alphas to their natural place as leaders and warriors

Can Omegas find contentment in their place as mothers and servants.”

— _The Book of Naturalism, on Alphas and Omegas_

 

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not going to meet the French bastard king.” Lovino turned and glared at his younger brother. “Why would he ever pick me? And why would I want to be his mate? He’d probably put me in a dress, damn it.”

Feliciano’s amber eyes were wide with worry. “Oh, but Lovino, he’s so big and powerful—”

“Big and powerful my ass,” Lovino retorted, turning back to the supper plates he was scrubbing in the washbasin. “He’s shorter than your potato bastard. And Gilbert’s the one with the power. Who leads the fights? Not the damn frog.”

“Shh!” Feliciano looked around their city house as if it held royal spies waiting to pounce. “You can’t be disrespectful to Alphas, Lovino. Especially Francis and Gilbert!”

Lovino snorted. “I couldn’t care less about damn Alphas.” He shoved a dripping plate at his brother. “Here. Dry this.”

The younger Omega accepted the plate and began drying it with a woolen cloth. “But Lovino, it’s just that, I think maybe . . .”

“Spit it out already.”

Feliciano bit his lip. “Well, Ludwig said that you would have to go.”

Lovino could have thrown a plate at the wall. He was sorely tempted, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. _Damn it._ He needed something he could hit or rip. He’d have to steal a bit of rawhide the next time Ludwig and Gilbert came back with the haunch of a deer. He wanted a chew toy.

And he didn’t need to be told that this wasn’t a normal thing for an Omega to want. Damn it.

“I don’t want to go,” Lovino murmured, a bit of helplessness creeping into his voice. The thought of lining up with the other Omegas from the kingdom, and having the king—a man almost twice his age—eye him up made his skin crawl. He’d seen their High Alpha, and he didn’t find him attractive at all. Too much stubble, too long hair, too—just—gross. But Lovino had yet to see any Alpha who he’d be willing to mate with. Just the idea of being a slave to an Alpha for life, popping out babies for him, _God_. He couldn’t think of anything worse. He just wanted to have a house to live in, food to eat, and maybe some friends to hang out with, though they might prove hard to come by. His little brother could be his friend, but Lovino knew that once Feliciano had children, he’d be too busy mothering them to have any fun.

That was what an Omega’s idea of fun was supposed to be. Raising nestlings and pups. Teaching Omega children to fly. Attending to Alphas’ every whim. It made Lovino sick. What did Alphas do to deserve that kind of treatment? And, for that matter, what did Omegas do to deserve theirs?

Feliciano was wringing his hands nervously, fretting as always. If Lovino were Ludwig, he’d tell Feliciano everything would be fine, and the little Omega would brighten immediately, trusting his mate to stand between him and all harm. But nobody did that for Lovino. Not that he was complaining; he didn’t want them to. He wanted to be able to fight for himself.

_But I’m just an Omega._

Lovino sighed. “If the potato bastard is forcing me, I guess that’s the end of it.” He crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring the water that dampened his shirt. “Would _you_ want to be the king’s mate?”

Thoughtfully, Feliciano fingered his flyaway curl of hair. “Hmm . . . well, I guess so. If I wasn’t Ludwig’s mate, of course.”

Lovino rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but do you actually think Francis is—y’know, handsome?”

Feliciano’s brow furrowed delicately in concentration. “Well . . . His hair is shiny, and his clothes are the nicest in the world. But he’s not as handsome as Ludwig.”

Lovino snorted. “Oh, no, nobody could ever be as handsome as the high and mighty Ludwig!” He threw his hands up, voice raising in exaggerated elation. Feliciano started to giggle, then covered his mouth, gaze focusing on something just behind Lovino.

“I didn’t know you were so infatuated, Omega.”

Dread nipped at Lovino’s stomach with cold fangs, but he didn’t turn to look. Instead, he inclined his head, blushing fiercely, as Ludwig stepped past him. The blond Alpha leant down to nuzzle Feliciano’s hair, a fond growl rumbling in his throat, and Lovino had to look away when he saw the pure glow of love on his younger brother’s face. Still, even though he wasn’t watching, the sound of their lips coming together, again and again, made him grimace in disgust.

“Lovino.” He looked up when he heard Ludwig’s sharp tone. “Why are you making that face? Are you unwell?”

Lovino blushed again and tried his best not to glare. “I’m fine.”

Ludwig’s brow lowered over piercing blue eyes, oozing disapproval. “You’re fine,  . . . ?”

Lovino dropped his gaze to the floor, muttering, “I’m fine, sir.”

“Hmph.” A chair groaned across the floor, wood against wood, as Ludwig took a seat. “Feli, make me some tea, please.”

Lovino watched his brother bustle to fix the tea. Not all Alphas said _please_ and _thank you_ ; in fact, most didn’t, unless they were speaking to fellow Alphas. But Ludwig was nice, or so Feliciano claimed. Lovino didn’t think occasional grunts of gratitude made someone qualify as nice, but what did he know? _Just an Omega._

Ludwig scratched behind his ear, an inherently canine gesture, and Lovino stifled a snort. _Fleabag._ As if reading his mind, Ludwig turned and fix his intense gaze on him again. “I’m sure Feli has told you that you’ll be expected at the line-up tomorrow.”

Lovino nodded, without enthusiasm. “Yeah.”

A blond eyebrow arched slightly.

“Yeah, _sir_.”

Ludwig shook his head, exasperated. “You should be pleased. Not every Omega will be allowed in, but you’ve been specifically requested.”

Lovino felt his eyes widen. For a moment, he felt nothing but shock, and a little spark of something that might have been happiness. Someone asked for him? He was special, for once? He almost stammered when he asked, “The king knows about me?”

Feliciano set a cup of tea down in front of Ludwig, who gave him a fond peck on the cheek before addressing Lovino. “ _Ja_ , he does. Gilbert has talked about you, and Antonio has seen you fetching water once or twice. He vouches for your beauty.”

Lovino’s brief happiness fizzled. It was easy to forget how connected they all were. Lovino was Feliciano’s brother—Feliciano was Ludwig’s mate—Ludwig was Gilbert’s brother—Gilbert and Antonio were the High Alpha’s closest advisors. Ludwig was high up in the Royal Guard, one of the strongest and skilled warriors in the city and likely the kingdom. If Lovino was not an Omega, he would have a notable bit of status, thanks to those ties. Sooner or later, Lovino thought he would get used to the unfairness of his life. But apparently it tasted just as bitter the millionth time as it did the first. _Damn it_.

“I’m not beautiful,” he heard himself saying. “Antonio must be blind.”

Ludwig’s words were edged with a snarl. “Do not speak of him in that disrespectful way, Omega. You’re lucky Gilbert is not here, or he would beat you for that.”

Feliciano, standing behind his mate, looked at Lovino with panicked eyes. Pleading silently not to make Ludwig angry.

Lovino let the flames inside him simmer to warm coals. He felt like this often, like there was nothing more than a fire where his heart should be, and if someone were to touch his chest, it would burn them with a hiss of sizzling flesh.

Forcing his words to sound light, he said, “So sorry, sir. Please forgive me.”

Ludwig just shook his head and handed his mate a small pouch of coins. “Go out and try to find something nice to wear tomorrow. But be back before dark. The last thing I need is to find the pair of you in gaol.” He sipped his tea, then spoke slowly, voice low. “And be warned, Lovino. If you show any of your ugly attitude to the king, I will pluck you myself.”

Lovino imagined it for just a second—the humiliation of his bird form prone in the Alpha’s iron grip, the sharp tugging pain of each flight feather being yanked from his wings—before holding out a hand to Feliciano. With a sympathetic look, his little brother linked their fingers, and the pair of them went out into the evening together, their lonely curls quivering in the breeze.


	4. Chapter 4

“Prostitution is a blemish on Omegas in Society.

It does not stir surprise in me that in Scandinavia,

the practise is illegal, but in Eurasia, it is commonplace.

Omegas there are but slaves.

Truly, it breaks my heart.”

_—Emil Bondevik, writing to his brother_

 

Arthur almost overslept the next morning. He’d been kept up late by Alistair, who wouldn’t let him rest until he had perfected his curtsy. Arthur’s shins were pulled by all that bobbing up and down, and he had the beginnings of a headache from the rough combing Alistair had given his hair.

“It’s an absolute _mess_ ,” his brother had complained. “I’m an Alpha, and my hair’s neater than yours. This is a goddamn rat’s nest!”

Arthur had no idea how hair as short as his could be so tangled, but Alistair had put an end to it. Scalp aching, Arthur stifled a yawn as he hurried to put together Alistair’s breakfast. Normally, he would eat the leftovers—or make something small for himself after Alistair had finished eating—but this morning his stomach was roiled with stress. Just looking at the bread and cheese, butter smeared between them, made nausea grip his guts.

“If you make us late,” Alistair kept muttering. “If you make us miss this, there’ll be hell to pay.”

The Kirkland brothers didn’t walk side-by-side; as an Omega, Arthur had to follow a few steps behind. Respectful distance. Not that he minded, since the scent of cheese on Alistair’s breath turned his stomach. And besides, it was easier to get through the village single-file anyway, what with the activity of others around them fighting for limited space. Everywhere Alphas were carrying things, mending things, making things. That was the difference between Alphas and Omegas, it seemed to Arthur. Alphas were productive in a large, loud way, and Omegas were productive in a domestic, quiet way. Neither were any more lazy than the other, it was just that Omegas were difficult to notice.

 _Because people don’t bother to notice us_ , Arthur thought glumly.

Some Alphas greeted Alistair as they passed; on more than one occasion he halted their progress for a bit of chitchat. _Oh, sure,_ Arthur thought, _if we’re late because of me, I’m to be decapitated, but if it’s your fault, it’s fine._ But he paid careful attention to his older brother as he chatted with these Alphas. “Aye, bringing the bird to the king. Hopefully he’ll like what he sees. No one else has!” And a companionable laugh between them, bonding over Arthur’s ugliness.

 _He’s proud of this_ , Arthur realized all at once. _He’s proud to have this as his quest, because it sets him apart from everyone else. He wants to go to the capital, even if it’s because of me._ In shock, Arthur thought, _If I get accepted to be the king’s mate, I’ll have more status than Alistair._

A technicality, of course. He was still biologically inferior, and he couldn’t act on his status—if he ordered an Alpha to do something, they would laugh in his face at best and do something more violent to his face at worst. But he would be more important than his brother.

These thoughts gave Arthur a new feeling of pride—unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. He was better than his brother. The king hadn’t called for unmated Alphas, had he? No. Because he was an Omega, Arthur was the star of this show. For the first time in his life, he lifted his chin and walked with a—rather clumsy—swagger.

Until Alistair noticed and shoved his shoulder. “Fly, idiot. Get your ass in the sky.”

Arthur stumbled but kept his footing. He waited until Alistair had shifted to his wolf form—ragged, red, more fox than wolf as far as Arthur was concerned—before he spread his arms and let the shiver of change ripple through him. It wasn’t a painful process, the shifting. It reminded Arthur of scratching off a fleck of dead skin. Each form was weightlessly shed in favor of the other, over and over again. Arthur preferred his human form, because his bird form . . . well . . .

On the ground, he swiveled, talons digging into the earth. Alphas were watching, lips curled in distaste. Under Alistair’s gaze, they turned away, but Arthur could hear the mutters.

“Deformed—”

“King won’t want that—”

“Alistair should pray—”

“Freakish raptor—”

And indeed, that’s what he was. When Arthur spread his wings, they were not the delicate appendages of a finch or a jay. They were broad, mighty, nearly four feet from tip to tip. His beak was not a tiny source of song. It was wickedly curved, producing only aggressive hisses and territorial screams. He was four times the height of normal Omegas in bird form, and he knew all of those things made other people—especially Alphas—uncomfortable.

He didn’t fly very much, as a result, so when Alistair snarled at him impatiently, it took Arthur a few moments to steady himself in the air. But his large wings were powerful, and the sun was warming thermals for him; he slipped into an updraft of air and soared up, up, up—so high above the village the Alphas seemed tiny, almost like prey.

 _Don’t be daft_ , he thought. _Even Omegas aren’t prey, even though they may treat us like rubbish. No one’s better than anyone else._ Up here, it was easy to think such thoughts. Optimistic treason.

Arthur flapped again, cutting through the air like a blade. Such freedom up here, such peace. He regretted spending so many hours alone in the house, lost in thought but never really able to think. No wonder! How could anyone think in that mess of politics and unhappiness the Alphas called home? True enlightenment could only be found up here, among the clouds. Sailing effortlessly through the air.

He looked downward, where Alistair was sprinting over the vast field—some called it a moor, but Arthur didn’t think it needed more at all—that lay between the village and the capital. The red-furred wolf stood out sharply against the green grasses, and even sharper with Arthur’s eyes. He was a harrier, a bird of prey, and his vision far exceeded that of a wolf. Below, Alistair’s paws pounded the ground, his body constantly surging forward, contracting and expanding, head jerking as he ran. Such beastly, ungraceful locomotion, and struggling at times to keep pace with Arthur’s flight. He only had to flap his wings, steer his tail, feel the air around him and the sun above him. When you thought about it that way, the bird was much stronger than the wolf.

 _I could be beaten bloody for thinking that._ Nonetheless, it made him lift his head higher, spread his wings wider. Rebellious thoughts are only dangerous when they turn into actions. I’m doing nothing wrong.

The capital, before a bumpy spine on the horizon, was coming into clearer view now. The village couldn’t begin to compare—it was smaller than the poor district of the city. The streets were all paved with cobblestones here, and the buildings made of stone, or cheerfully painted wood. In the village, things were wilder; here, because they had no trouble surviving, they needed other things to fill their time, so money became an importance. Everywhere were shops for everything one could think of: food, cutlery, clothing, furniture, books. Books! Arthur felt a little thrill. Imagine, being able to lounge and read books all afternoon. A fantasy he’d never bothered to consider, but one that tasted sweet now that he’d never bothered to consider, but one that tasted sweet now that he’d let it in.

Arthur landed on a rock near the city’s edge, Alistair trotting up beside him. The wolf was panting heavily, pink tongue dripping frothy saliva, and Arthur suspected his brother would have liked to flop down for a while if it wouldn’t have made him look weak.

“You there!”

Alistair and Arthur both shifted back to human form at the commanding call. It was improper to come into a township in an animal form, but unthinkable to approach a stranger in an opposing form to theirs. It would be taken as a show of disrespect, or a declaration of war. One doesn’t use claws and fangs to say hello, after all.

A blond guardsman was striding toward them, a bayonet-fitted rifle on his back, the blade glinting where it reached for the sun. “Have you come for the Omega line-ups?”

Arthur almost nodded in response, but he made it into a bow of respect at the last second. _See? This is what happens when you think about Omegas being equal to Omegas. You almost get yourself in trouble. Get your head on straight, prat._

“Aye,” Alistair replied, tone more polite than Arthur had ever heard. “Are we too late?”

The guard shook his head. Arthur was amazed by the blue eyes of the tall blond man—they were sharp enough to slit your throat one moment, then soft as pussy willows the next. “ _Nein_ ,” he replied, and Arthur wondered what that could mean. Nine minutes before the line-up commenced? Or that there were only nine Omegas there to compete with Arthur? A fresh wave of anxiety washed over him. How many would be there? And how would the king decide?

 _What if he wants to see our bird forms? Oh, god._ Arthur might as well turn back now. Why would the king want a bird of prey for a mate? A walking, flying deformity.

“Go right up the main street, then up the staircase,” the guard advised. “Don’t bother going down any side streets, you’ll just get lost.”

Alistair nodded. “Right. Thanks.” He strode into the city, and Arthur hurried after him, curtsying clumsily at the guard as he passed. He thought he saw the man’s blond brow furrow, but he wasn’t sure.

Then, they were in the city! A completely different atmosphere than in the village. Though Arthur knew he was supposed to keep his gaze down, he couldn’t help but glance up every other step, amazed by all these new colors and things, things everywhere! Flowers in window boxes, bright pink petals—scuttles swinging from strong hands, loaded with dark stones that must have been coal—the miracle of a bakery, its shining windows full of warm loaves and cakes. Arthur’s stomach growled; he would have pressed his nose to the glass if he wasn’t in a hurry, and if he didn’t think it would leave a smear.

And not only were there things, there were people. The expected Alphas, all striding with their typical purpose; everyone seemed to be in a hurry today, not just the Kirklands. But there were also children, Alpha pups wrestling or chasing hoops or throwing balls for each other to fetch. And—this was the incredible bit—there were Omegas. Arthur thought at first that they were headed for the castle as well, but no, they moved in all the directions Alphas did. Most appeared to be running errands, their arms full of baskets or babies or sometimes both. The Omegas never met an Alpha’s gaze, and went ignored by the superior men, but they smiled and waved to each other, some even pausing for small talk. This shocked Arthur most of all. No Omega would dare to look idle in the village, lest an Alpha see and cuff them for being useless.

Arthur had barely registered covering ground before they reached the end of the main street. He looked back over his shoulder for just a second, but he couldn’t see where they had come in, nor could he see the yellow-haired Alpha who welcomed them. No one took notice of Arthur, or Alistair, which was odd. _Something good about the city_ , Arthur thought. _When there are enough people around, anyone can turn invisible, if they let themselves._

“Come on,” Alistair snapped, gruff to hide his excitement. “Hurry up. The quicker we do this, the quicker I can get back home.”

Arthur followed him up the steps obediently, but he could only think, _The quicker_ you _can get home? Do you really think he’ll pick me? I’ll likely be the most flawed Omega here._

The castle was precisely how Arthur had always pictured it. He’d heard stories, when he was a nestling, of castles with princesses and dragons in them, dashing Alpha knights to the rescue. This castle had towers, pointed roofs, angel statues, purple flags blown gently by the breeze. It was the sort of place that looked like it had grown up from the land rather than be built there by men of the past. Ivy coated its east wall, making Arthur think the stone had shrugged on a rich green cloak. _I wish I had one of those._ His clothing was unremarkable, just a fraying homespun shirt and trousers. He’d sewn both of these himself, so the stitches were uneven and not all the buttons matched. Alistair looked better, since his clothing had been done up by one of their neighbor’s Omegas. This still humiliated Arthur, even though he hated sewing, because it meant this: he was useless. It was one thing for Alistair to say it—and say it, and say it—but another for their clothes to serve as a constant reminder.

At the top of the stone steps, a quartet of folk stood nattering. It took Arthur a moment to make sense of them all. Two Alphas in regal clothing had their backs to the oak door, one dark haired and one with hair so ashen it looked white. Antonio and Gilbert, definitely. Gilbert was arguing with another Alpha, a very tall, broad-shouldered man with a deep, rolling voice. An Omega stood a few feet away, blithely admiring the backs of his hands. Arthur wondered if he was mad.

“Won’t you let the king see him?” asked the tall Alpha. “I’m eager to be rid of him. He gets on my nerves.”

Gilbert shook his head. “No means no, Ivan. _Nein. Nyet._ _Non_ ,” he said through his nose, and both he and Ivan chuckled at this playful mockery of their High Alpha. “Francis won’t take a whore as a mate. Who would?”

Ivan sighed. “Fine, fine. Give my regards to Sir Bonnefoy.”

Antonio cocked his head slightly. “You didn’t come all the way here just for that, did you?”

Ivan’s eyebrows spiked. “Of course. Why else would I be here?”

The Spanish Alpha matched his expression. “To find some fresh meat for your bordello.”

Intent on eavesdropping, Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin when the Omega—the whore—stepped beside him, holding a hand up to Arthur’s face. “Lookie,” he said, smiling lazily, eyes heavy lidded. “They’re polished with rose oil. Smell?”

Arthur hesitantly sniffed the gleaming nails, and the Omega grinned. “Just luscious, right? It’s my new favorite. The rose. My last was lilac but this is the most loveliest of lovely, isn’t it just?”

“Uh . . .”

“Feliks, shut your mouth,” Ivan ordered, without much heat. He started talking to Antonio again, but Arthur couldn’t hear what they said because at that moment Gilbert came forward and asked, “You here for the line-up?”

Alistair puffed himself up. “Yes, sir, he is.”

Gilbert’s lips curled into a smirk. “ _Yes, sir_ , huh? Well, then. Let’s look at your Omega.” He circled Arthur once, flicking a hand at Feliks to get him out of the way. Arthur felt unnerved by those red eyes, but it wasn’t as bad as he suspected the king’s gaze would be. Gilbert looked at him like he’d flay him if he got riled; Francis would take Arthur’s body in a far, far more intimate way.

Gilbert pursed his lips thoughtfully, glanced up at the sun, then shrugged. “You may as well go in, Omega. The king is already inspecting the line-up, but he might be interested in you.”

Arthur swallowed, heart pounding his breastbone. This was one of the most defining moments of his life, and the background music was this:

“No, you stay out here, red,” Gilbert was telling Alistair. “Let him go in by himself.”

“I don’t think I’ll be returning to your establishment,” Antonio was saying. “No offense. I want to settle down.”

“Good luck,” Feliks might have said. Arthur could never be sure.

Because the old oak door was creaking open, and the world held its breath as the High Alpha turned to look at Arthur with eyes like stolen sky, and a smile brightened the most handsome face in the kingdom as he said two perfectly damning words:

“That one.”


	5. Chapter 5

“In much the same way Alphas are distinct from Omegas

one sees a similar view between urban and rural living,

wherein the urbanites are powerful

and the rubes are inferior.

The Royal Guard lives and trains in capital cities.

So perhaps there is truth in this sentiment.”

_—editorial made anonymous soon after publication_

 

Francis had woken that morning with a notable amount of excitement, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. Some Alphas thought their masculinity was challenged by showing emotions, but he disagreed. Alphas experienced the same feelings Omegas did—they were all people, like it or not—and claiming otherwise just signified ignorance.

Francis dressed in his typical clothes, though they were not typical of anyone else in his kingdom. He preferred looser robes, flowing satins and silk like the ear of a baby rabbit. And color! He would not be caught dead in the ugly armor Gilbert often sported, though he admitted it was better to be protected than fashionable. _Still_ , he thought, smiling at his reflection in the looking glass, _i_ _s it not possible to be both?_

A servant offered to bring him a tray of breakfast, but he waved them away and headed downstairs. He didn’t want to eat. He wanted to see pretty Omegas.

It did not occur to him that there might not be any suitable Omegas in his grand hall. If that turned out to be the case, well, he’d just have to go with the best one, the most tolerable. If worse came to worse, he’d get Antonio and Gilbert’s opinion and base his decision off that. It wouldn’t be the first time an Alpha had mated an Omega he didn’t really want. It used to happen all the time, when mating was more of a business venture than a romantic achievement. That still went on in poorer places, where necessity demanded it. If an Omega lived by themselves, they would have to either pay for food or accept charity, so it was just simpler to mate and have an Alpha to provide for them. And in return, the Omega gave the Alpha relief from sexual urges, and, eventually, children to further the bloodline. Everything, even survival, was a deal between two stronger forces. One had to be weaker than the other, always. Otherwise, no deals could be made.

 _The Natural way_ , Francis thought as he stepped into the grand hall. He hoped his chosen Omega would be well-versed in the philosophies. If not, Antonio would have to train them. Him. Francis refused to entertain the notion of another female mate. There was bad luck attached to them. Just because they were rare didn’t mean they were good.

The castle was incredibly old-fashioned, and so the grand-hall had banners along its walls, sconces for torches on its pillars, and a place for a great throne. There was no throne, however; Francis had better things to do than sit around looking royal, though of course he did this excellently. Instead, in a place of a throne, there was a dias and podium. He preferred to do his public addresses in the comfort of his own home, to appropriately high-ranking Alphas, then allow them to spread the word to the commoners.

There were no high-ranking Alphas in the hall now, however, unless you counted Francis. As he stepped up to his podium, standing beside it to pose handsomely with an arm resting atop it, all of the Omegas turned to face him. A line-up it was not; they stood in a crude circle, a few clumped together here and there. At least thirty of them must be here. Francis wasn’t sure if he was glad for the multitude of options, or frustrated by it.

He cleared his throat pointedly. “Your High Alpha greets you, Omegas.”

Some bowed immediately, while others took a moment to realize what they were supposed to do. Francis’s brow furrowed slightly as he noticed which ones had a delay in their expected obeisance. One, a young brunette with a hair curl, even scowled as he lowered his upper body. _That must be Feliciano’s brother_ , Francis thought. _He shouldn’t have wasted his time. Why did Antonio want him to be here, if his attitude is as bad as Gilbert claims? I suppose Lovino has some beauty, but the lack of submission ruins it._

Francis stepped down into the circle of Omegas. Some of them were nearing their Heats, he could smell it; the hormones inside them stirred something within Francis, a rutting sensation, an instinctive desire to dominate, mount and breed. _Mmm,_ he thought, _imagine having all of these Omegas to call my own. A mate for each day of the month._ But, of course, that wouldn’t work. Many of them would have Heats around the same time, and how could he have sex with more than one at once? _Well._ He stifled a chuckle. He could and had made love to several people at the same time, at the brothel he’d frequented when he was but a prince, Gilbert was but a guard-in-training, Antonio was but the son of an advisor. But penetrative sex could only be done between two people—a true union, required to impregnate an Omega and ease their Heat. Having a stable of mates sounded nice, but it was impractical, especially at Francis’s age. He wanted a mature mate, he realized as he eyed these young Omegas. He wanted someone he could speak intelligently with from time to time.

Not that he would ever admit that to anyone.

Francis turned slowly, looking from Omega to Omega. Most of them were half his age, fourteen or fifteen, with a few looking seventeen or eighteen. All of them were gaunt, fearful, unable to move their eyes higher than Francis’s chest. None were perfect—he supposed that was normal for those who weren’t kings—but some had positive qualities. Unfortunately, Francis’s tastes were quite specific. He preferred light skin, blond hair, blue or green eyes, and gentle curves. There were whores in the brothel who overate to give themselves bigger thighs, asses, breasts. Francis understood the appeal, signs of fertility, but he didn’t want that in his mate. He wanted someone he could put in a gown, someone with manners, someone who wouldn’t have other Alphas slathering. Someone who would be his, and no one else’s.

“Be generous,” Antonio had advised last night.

“ _Excusez-moi_?”

“Well, I know you. Your expectations are always really high. Which can be a good thing,” he’d added quickly. “But just try to see them as people first.”

Francis liked to think he saw Omegas as people more than anyone else did. And he _was_ being generous as he appraised these dark-haired, tan-skinned teenagers. He was even generous when he looked at Lovino and the Omega dared to look back at him for a brief moment before hurriedly gazing downward.

Francis stepped toward him. “Excuse me.” He spoke in English, since he doubted the Omega knew more than one language. “What is your name?”

Lovino wisely continued to stare at the floor. “Lovino Vargas. Sir.”

Francis chuckled. “Oh, I am not _sir_. I am the High Alpha. You address me as Your Majesty.”

There was a tiny hit of bitterness in the Omega’s tone. “Sorry, Your Majesty.”

“I’m sure you are.” Francis turned away from the Omega. Completely undesirable. There was likely something wrong with his brain that caused the disobedience. Francis had heard of tumors that grew within the skull and changed how a person acted, made strangers of loved ones and killed them in the end. Probably Lovino Vargas would be dead soon, and besides, Francis didn’t want some brain disease passing on to his children.

Francis was a little disheartened to see that most of these head-bowed Omegas were from the capital. Did his far-flung subjects not appreciate him? Such were the rumors, though he’d never gotten around to caring. His capital loved him, and they would defend him from pathetic rebel groups. Not that Francis was worried; in his experience, countrymen were too lazy to rebel. Too lazy or too stupid.

Francis stepped back. None of these Omegas were perfection. Sighing, he ordered, “Face me and line up.” As the Omegas hurried to obey him, Francis turned toward the doors, about to ask Antonio and Gilbert to come and assist him.

And that was when he saw him.

Just as he had always wanted. The man standing in the castle doorway had sandy hair, emerald eyes, boyish musculature, and—was that a light dusting of freckles over his nose? Francis smiled. A perfect, unassuming man, and not a teenager, either. He had the faint beginnings of wrinkles on his forehead—from stress, Francis suspected. The clothes were the sort someone from a village—and someone poor from a village, at that—would wear, and Francis couldn’t wait to see the man in a wedding dress.

Antonio was following the blond man in, so Francis didn’t waste his time in announcing, “That one.”

The chosen Omega’s green eyes stretched wide, and Antonio looked pretty surprised too, but he said, “The king has made his decision. You may all return to your homes.”

The Omegas filed out in dejection. In amusement, Francis noticed a couple giving his chosen Omega sidelong glares, but he was distracted by Antonio stopping one of the Omegas. “Stay, Lovino,” the Spanish Alpha said. “I will speak to you in a moment.”

Lovino crossed his arms. “Yes, sir.” He leaned against a pillar, grumpily gazing at his feet.

The chosen Omega stood a few feet away from him, looking like he might pass out. Francis suspected he didn’t have much excitement in his life. But, living in a village, how could he? Francis scoffed. _Yokels._

Antonio strode up to Francis, standing close and speaking in an undertone. “Congratulations, King Bonnefoy.”

Francis smiled. “ _Merci._ I was worried I would have to settle for someone less than satisfactory. It seems fate has saved me.”

Antonio nodded. “Speaking of settling . . . I was wondering if I could accept a mate from your line-up?”

Francis glanced around theatrically, then laughed. “I wonder who you mean! So this is why you wanted the beautiful Lovino to be here, _oui_?”

Antonio nodded again, sheepish. “It’s been on my mind for a while. I’d like to have a mate, if you will give your blessing.”

In the past, some kings had forbade their advisors to mate; they claimed it distracted from the task of protecting the king and the people. But, by that logic, the king should not mate either, and then where would they be?

Francis embraced Antonio. “Of course, you have my blessing, _mon ami_.”

Antonio pulled back, positively delighted. “ _Muchos gracias!_ ”

They both turned to face their new Omegas, the spooked blond countryman and the bratty city boy. Francis said, “You, my chosen one. What is your name?”

“A—” His voice broke; he cleared it and replied, “A-Arthur Kirkland, Your Majesty.”

“Arthur Kirkland.” Francis didn’t bother to savor the surname. “Soon to be, Arthur Bonnefoy! You and I will be wed in time, but until then, this will suffice.” He gave a small pause, to add weight to his stately pronouncement: “I name you my mate.”

An awkward pause. Then, Arthur hastily lowered into a curtsy and said, “It . . . it is my honor, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, it is.” Francis nodded to Antonio. “Your turn.”

The Spanish Alpha held a hand out to Lovino as if he might start serenading him. “And you, Lovino Vargas, will soon be Lovino Carriedo. I take you as my mate today.”

Lovino’s brow furrowed, a protest brightening his eyes like fire. Francis and Antonio watched in fascination as Lovino’s hands fisted and his eyes closed; when they opened, the Omega appeared calm. He replied stiffly, “An honor, sir.”

Francis and Antonio exchanged a glance.

“Well,” said Francis, which meant _You’ll have to tame that one._

“Hm,” said Antonio, which meant _It might take a while._

Francis clasped his hands together. “Come, Arthur! You must meet my son, and see your new home.”

He started away, but at the top of the stairs, he looked back. Antonio was speaking to Lovino, a hand on his shoulder. Francis privately thought friendly Antonio was too soft for a misbehaving Omega, but he supposed anyone could rise to a challenge. _Except an Omega_ , he thought with a smile, and watched Arthur scurry obediently after him.


	6. Chapter 6

“As long as the practises of Naturalism

plague the people of Western Eurasia,

I will not return for any friendly visits.

If King Francis Bonnefoy calls us ‘Deformed’,

I swear by every warrior in Valhalla:

I will declare war on his kingdom of love.”

_—Mathias Køhler, writing to Lukas Bondevik_

 

“Here is the dining hall, is it not lovely? _C’est très bon, oui_?”

Arthur looked into the room Francis indicated. It was as lovely as the rest of the castle (which was to say, very). The table was the main feature of the room, long and red and shining as it reflected the chandeliers above. Velvet-cushioned chairs lined either side of the table, and Arthur wondered how someone could have so many guests at one time. The walls here were not draped with royal colors, but instead decorated with several portraits of running horses, blue mountain ranges, a misty waterfall. Arthur was most drawn to the largest painting, a massive canvas at the far end of the table. Within an intricately carved frame were three wolves. On the left, a white wolf with crimson eyes sat alert, ears pricked, ready to face danger. On the right lay the smallest of the three, brown-furred and hazel-eyed, infinitely friendlier than the white wolf. Between them stood a beautiful golden wolf, cleverly painted in a shaft of sunlight so his ruff sparkled and he seemed more heavenly than his companions. His eyes were the deepest, loveliest blue possible, too pretty to be realistic. The three wolves together made for a magnificent piece of art.

“Do you recognize me?”

Arthur glanced back at the king, who was smiling proudly. “You’re the golden one? Your Majesty?”

“ _Oui._ With Gilbert and Antonio.” Francis looked up at the painting, admiring himself. Arthur wondered what the High Alpha truly looked like in his animal form. Would he be as imposingly beautiful as the canid in the painting? Or would reality betray him, make him into no less than a tawny beast?

If Arthur were not an Omega, he would have asked a million questions in that moment. _What’s it like to be a wolf? Is it fun to run on four legs? Why do you chase your tail? What will happen now that I’m your mate? Why do you like me?_ It was rather anticlimactic, this house tour after the choosing, but Arthur didn’t mind. He needed to wind down after the stress this whole thing had stirred up. Knowing the details of his new life, or even just partaking in a calm conversation, would have helped ease his nerves, but he was an Omega. He was not supposed to speak unless spoken to—especially around someone as important as Francis Bonnefoy.

 _My mate, the High Alpha of Western Eurasia._ It didn’t even seem real to him. He felt numb.

“Here is the library,” continued Francis, pushing open another oak door. There seemed to be no shortage of those around here, and they all creaked hideously. Alistair’s house had a door that blew in when the wind was strong, but it never creaked. The grass was always greener, apparently.

Stepping into the library, Arthur couldn’t help but gasp. Who could have ever guessed that this many books existed in the world, let alone in one room? Shelves upon shelves of volumes; the ceiling was high enough that some shelves required climbing a ladder to reach. Wary of disturbing anything, Arthur held his breath as he stepped toward a smaller case situated separate from the rest. It stood at the height of his waist, its sides carved with what appeared to be oak trees, which struck him as rather insensitive if the bookcase itself was made of oak. Arthur crouched to read the spines of the books. In gold lettering, they were all labelled _The Book of Naturalism_.

Beside him, Francis was saying, “. . . several cooking books, many of them include my own recipes, historicals, mostly of battles won by members of the Bonnefoy and Beilschmidt bloodlines, plenty of romances, my personal favorites—” He broke off, noticing what had captured Arthur’s attention. “Ah, _oui_. Do you know about Naturalism?”

Arthur considered how to answer. He wanted to impress Francis. This was a fresh start with a new Alpha, one unlike his brother, one who might praise him if he did something well. But, try as he might, he couldn’t think of a better response than, “I’ve heard a bit about it over the years, but I don’t really know what it is.”

Francis didn’t look exasperated like Alistair would have. He didn’t look notably surprised that Arthur lacked the knowledge, either. “Well, you will have time to learn the teachings in a more indepth way later, but for now . . .” He twirled a wavy strand of hair around his finger. “Suffice to say, Naturalism means Alphas are in charge and Omegas are not.”

 _Oh, that sounds familiar._ Arthur gave a tiny nod. “So it’s the way things are.”

Francis smiled, pleased that he understood. “Yes, it is. Our society was sculpted around the Natural way. That’s why everything works so well. Everyone knows their purpose and place, you see?”

Arthur nodded again, forcing himself to be meek. He did not see, but he could pretend if survival required it. _I wonder if Antonio’s Omega can pretend._ Arthur had never seen an Omega look as angry as that Italian had earlier. What was his name? Vino, that sort of thing. Arthur felt a bit of kinship with the rebellious teenager. He was like Arthur, upset about their treatment, though he seemed more passionate than Arthur had ever been. Deformed, some might say. _Just as they say it about me._ Arthur hoped they would meet again, be able to exchange meaningful words. He’d forgive him for the glare he’d gotten when Vino was on his way out the door. _No hard feelings_ , he would say. _Omegas like us need to stick together._

Finally, they arrived at a bedroom wallpapered in cheerful pink. Everything, from the bars of the crib to the mane of the rocking horse, was the color of a pale rose’s petals. It was all orderly and feminine; definitely an Omega’s room.

“Ah, here he is! Mathieu!” Francis held out his arms, and a chubby toddler abandoned his dolls to come wobbling over, his face blessed with the sweetest little smile. Francis lifted him up, nuzzling his soft cheek. “ _Ma petite poussin._ ”

Watching this, Arthur felt a peculiar twinge in his chest, and it took him a long moment to realize what it was: longing. He wanted to have a loving family like Matthew had, even if it was just one person. Why couldn’t Alistair have been like this for Arthur? It wasn’t _his_ fault that their mother started off weak and was only made weaker by the stresses of childbirth. It wasn’t Arthur’s fault the Kirkland family had only two living members, so why did Alistair take it out on him?

Francis and Matthew were both looking at him with concerned blue eyes, which struck Arthur as odd. In a gentle tone, unlike any he had used previously to address his new mate, Francis asked, “Are you alright, Arthur?”

All at once, Arthur felt tears flow down his cheeks. “Oh, I—I’m sorry—” He tried to wipe his cheeks with his hands, but his embarrassment only made more tears come. His throat burned with stifled sobs. _God_ , had he always been this dysfunctional and just never realized?

A gentle touch to his jaw. Arthur looked up, sniffling, as Matthew stroked his little fingertips through the tears. The toddler’s tiny lips formed an O. He squeaked, “ _Ca va_?”

It was gibberish to Arthur, but Francis translated by asking again, “Are you alright?” And, shockingly, the High Alpha’s eyes were as caring as any sympathetic mate’s should be. He was standing close to Arthur, as well; they were not the Bonnefoy father and son, with Arthur the unwanted stranger. Arthur and Francis stood together, Matthew between them, connecting them.

Arthur’s heart trembled in his chest. This felt real, now. This would be his life, his family.

“Yes,” Arthur replied, voice a bit uneven. “I was just . . . I’m just happy to be home.”

A warm smile curled Francis’s lips, and the High Alpha leaned to press a kiss to Arthur’s cheek. It was a kiss of stubble and red wine, the wonderful feeling of a fond chuckle against his skin. Amused, Francis murmured, “We are happy to have you, _mon amour_.”

A pet name, that was clear, even if he didn’t understand its meaning. Francis cared about him! Enough to be nice, at the very least, and maybe more? _If there are Omegas who hate our place in society, maybe there are Alphas who are against it, too. Maybe not all Alphas are cruel._ Relief filled Arthur like a warm drink, and—for the first time in a very long time—his lips quirked into a smile.


	7. Chapter 7

“Though it may seem that Alphas are born

with natural leadership, this is not true.

An Alpha must learn to be patient and well-spoken,

and above all realize that kindness is not exclusive to Omegas.

We must love our mates, and strike them only when necessary.

Casual slaps, kicks, or bites are excessive and distasteful.”

_—High Alpha Francis Bonnefoy, Royal Observations_

 

Lovino was so angry, he would spit if only his grandfather hadn’t taught him otherwise. He wished his grandfather was still alive; he’d been the only Alpha Lovino actually liked.

 _Son of a bitch!_ This was just Lovino’s luck, to line up for the High Alpha and be chosen by his advisor! If he was being fair—which he wasn’t—the advisor was admittedly more handsome than the king. If you liked that sort of thing. To Lovino, Antonio looked like he’d been left out in the sun too long. And he talked like he was trying to tie a cherry stem in a knot with his tongue. His accent sounded even weirder than the king’s. But, if you wanted the weirdest by far, you needn’t look further than Gilbert Beilschmidt. German was possibly the ugliest dialect to ever assault Lovino’s ears. Every word they said sounded like a weapon to attack him with.

He would much rather be killed than have to deal with _this_ for the rest of his life. Following behind Antonio, he was tempted beyond belief to wrap his arms around the Spaniard’s neck, trick the guards into stabbing him with their bayonets. Or, easier, he could just take to the skies, soar through some thermals and let them carry him away, away, until he found somewhere better.

But he couldn’t do that, for two reasons. One, he couldn’t leave his dumb brother because he was his brother, damn it. Two, he had no proof there was any place out there where Omegas could live free of oppression. Based on personal experience, he seriously doubted it.

Antonio’s house was quite close to the castle; down the steps, the first house on the right side. To the left of the steps were the soldiers’ barracks, where Gilbert and Ludwig spent most of their time. Gilbert had a bedroom in the house Lovino used to called home— _damn it_ —but he didn’t spend many nights there, preferring to sleep in his private bedroom in the barracks.

“Here it is,” Antonio announced, gesturing to the house as if Lovino was a blind idiot. Why was this guy so damn enthusiastic all the time? “Do you like flowers?”

Lovino regarded the window boxes—overflowing with light blue petals—and the side garden—lined neatly with rose bushes—before shifting his gaze back to Antonio. “Yeah. They’re great. Sir.”

Antonio’s smile seemed a little troubled as he opened the front door and waited for Lovino to follow him in. “This house was a gift from my father. He was the advisor to King Francis’s father, and my grandfather was the advisor to the king’s grandfather.” His eyes brightened with pride. “We’ve been tied together for centuries.”

 _You come from a long line of guys who were always serving a royal prick? Wow. Congratulations. You’re the most Omega-like Alpha I’ve ever seen._ Lovino held his tongue, gave only a vaguely interested, “Hmm.”

Antonio looked around as if searching for something else to say. Finally, he went with, “Well, I think your first task as my mate should be to make me some lunch.”

 _Oh, thanks. What a privilege._ Lovino rarely cooked for Ludwig and Gilbert; Feliciano enjoyed it more, so Lovino usually just helped him and cleaned up after him. But now he was expected to all the work by himself. Or was he? Lovino looked up at Antonio. “Who normally makes you food?”

“Well, I have several servants who clean and cook, but they’re not really mind. They live in the castle. The king pays them.” Antonio fingered the loose cuff of his shirtsleeve. “Why do you ask?”

Lovino shrugged. “Just seems like they should be the ones doing it. They’re more skilled, and they know how you like your meals. I’m inexperienced _and_ unskilled. Sir.”

Antonio’s brow furrowed. “I am your Alpha, Lovino. You will do what I say, and you will not question me.”

Lovino should have felt a jolt of fear, and he would have if it was Ludwig talking, but Antonio just sounded like a pup trying to intimidate a nestling. So Lovino shrugged again, bowing his head. “Yes, sir. But I would prefer my mate to enjoy his lunch, and I just think you would like what the servants make more. But I would love to make you pasta. It’s all I know how to cook.”

Antonio looked troubled again, confused. “Pasta? What kind of pasta?”

“Just pasta. With butter.” A lie, of course; he and Feliciano could produce a vast array of meals if they put their minds to it, but Antonio had no way of knowing that right now.

Antonio crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. “Well . . . I’ll go tell the servants they’re needed, then. You’ll need to learn to cook more than that, but there will be time for that later. For now, explore the home as you wish, but don’t damage anything.” He walked out of the house, puzzling over what had gone wrong.

Lovino dropped onto a thick sofa, smirking. He’d won a battle, but the war would go on for the rest of his life. _God_. He wondered where the Spaniard’s limits lay. How far could he go without getting beaten? There was only one way to find out, and he’d be lying if he said testing these boundaries didn’t give him a thrill. He could never get away with this level of impertinence with Ludwig or Gilbert. Maybe—just maybe—this wouldn’t be as bad as he’d thought.

A flurry of excited taps on the window. Lovino glanced over to see Feliciano bouncing on his toes out there, a grin brightening his face. Lovino felt the usual irritated fondness for his brother, but he felt something else, too. Homesickness. Because, though Feliciano was here now, eventually he would leave and Lovino would have to stay. For a split second, Lovino could have cried.

Then he jerked his hand to beckon Feliciano in and gave one of the sofa’s cushions a good punch. Then another. Then a dozen more just for good measure.

“Lovi! Don’t hurt the pillow.” Feliciano took his brother’s hands, concern evaporating into delight. “Antonio chose you! You have a mate! I’m so happy for you, Lovi!”

Lovino pulled out of his brother’s grasp. “Yeah, I have a mate. Now, instead of several Alphas sharing the responsibility of bossing me around, I get a special one to make my life miserable.”

Feliciano covered his mouth with his fingers. “Oh, no, Lovino. You can’t think that way. It’s wonderful to have a mate, I promise! I used to feel lonely a lot of the time before I met Ludwig, but now that we’re mates he makes me feel so safe!” He hugged himself, smiling, eyes closed as if imagining the big blond Alpha’s arms around him. “You’ll love it when Antonio holds you. It’s the best feeling in the world.”

Lovino stared at his little brother. A betrayed note stuck out in his voice. “You felt lonely? But we were always together. You were annoying as hell, we spent every second together! And you were lonely?”

Feliciano’s eyes flew open. “That’s not what I meant! It’s just . . .” He started wringing his hands. “There’s nothing better for an Omega than an Alpha, that’s what Ludwig says. We can love Omegas lots—and I do love you lots, Lovi—but a mate is something special.”

Lovino looked at him a moment longer, then sighed. “Stop doing that with your hands. It’s fine.”

His little brother looked hopeful. “You’re not mad?”

Lovino shook his head. “I’m always mad, but not at you.”

Just then, the door opened and in strode Antonio with two Omegas in tow. One was male, the other, female; both Vargas brothers couldn’t help but stare at her. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, as did her companion. Lovino didn’t understand the Alphas who found females attractive. They looked peculiar, their breasts so dramatic and round; Lovino would worry, while making love to a woman, that her nipples would poke his eyes out.

Feliciano curtsied to Antonio. “Good day, Mr. Carriedo, sir.”

Lovino ducked his head, but kept his gaze on Antonio’s face. “Welcome home. Sir.”

By all rights, Antonio should have given Lovino a good smack for such blatant disrespect. But the Spaniard just looked a little helpless as he said, “Lunch, Omegas. Fix it.”

The servants murmured, “Yes, sir,” and disappeared behind a closed door, into what was presumably the kitchen.

Antonio turned to Feliciano. “Does Ludwig require you to be home?”

Feliciano shook his head. “No, sir. He’s on patrol until dinnertime.”

“Double shifted, is he? That’s like him.” Surprisingly, Antonio sounded fond. Lovino felt betrayed by this, by the fact that he was the only one who hated Ludwig Beilschmidt.

Lovino took a moment to imagine what he would say, if he were an Alpha. _Get out of here, freaks_ , would probably work. He’d say it in that gruff way that Alphas had with each other, expressing friendship with insults, slapping each other on the back in place of a hug. Then Antonio and Feliciano would head out, and Lovino would sit and be served a delicious meal and no one would have the right to barge in and order him around.

Then, because he was an Omega, he and Feliciano ate at a small table in the kitchen while Antonio feasted in the dining room by himself. Feliciano invited the servants to join them, but they simply finished tidying and walked out in silence.

“They seem sad,” Feliciano remarked, pouting with sympathy.

“I’d be pretty depressed if I had to slave away like that all day.” Lovino snorted. “And what do they get out of it? A few coins they can’t even use unless their Alphas say they can.”

Feliciano sipped some apple cider. “Maybe you shouldn’t speak so loud, Lovino . . .” His eyes were on the door, wary of the Spaniard bursting through.

Lovino shook his head. “When did you become the one who worries, Feli? I thought that was my job.”

The smaller Omega shrugged. “I don’t know. Alphas are just scary sometimes, and I don’t want to get hurt. I don’t want you to get hurt, either.”

Lovino watched his little brother closely. They were fifteen and sixteen, and yet Feliciano had the carriage of an adult. When had he grown up? Lovino felt like he had blinked and missed it. Had he lost his little brother to Ludwig without realizing? And, now that Lovino lived with Antonio, was this the end of the Vargas brothers? Fear gripped his stomach. Feliciano may be ridiculously irritating sometimes, but that didn’t mean Lovino wanted to say goodbye to him.

“Okay,” Lovino said slowly. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll be careful so long as you visit . . . at least once a week.”

Feliciano’s face brightened in a way he usually reserved for Ludwig. “Okay! Pinkie swear?” He offered a hand, pinkie extended.

Lovino allowed a small smile and curled his finger around his brother’s. “Pinkie swear. Now hurry up and eat your lunch. Once the tomato bastard finishes eating, we’ll have a load of dishes to wash.”

“Oooh.” Feliciano put on a grumpy face. “ _Fun_.”

“Is that supposed to be me?” Lovino tossed a napkin at his little brother, who giggled and ducked away as Lovino reached to tickle him. “Get over here, little _monello_!”

Through the crack of the slightly ajar door, Antonio watched with a fond smile on his lips. He lingered a moment, enjoying the bells of Feliciano’s laughter, before he silently returned to his empty plates. He would allow the Omegas a few moments of merriment. _Nothing wrong with an Alpha who’s a little lenient,_ he thought to himself. _Nothing wrong with that at all._


	8. Chapter 8

“The Omega’s reproductive system has been the subject

of some debate over the years.

Many doctors claimed it was identical to that of a bird

but as no Omega has ever birthed an egg, this was debunked.

However, the external parts of Omegas do resemble the cloaca

found in many bird species. Any Omega born with a phallus

is Deformed and a perversion of the Natural order.”

_—The Book of Naturalism_

 

As it always did, night came.

The first day with a new mate had gone well, Francis thought. He and Arthur had spent at least an hour playing with Matthew, and Francis was pleased that the green-eyed Omega had already fallen in love with his son. (It was hardly surprising, however. Not even Gilbert was immune to Matthew’s adorable charms.) The Omega had also seemed enamoured with the library, which Francis appreciated; his first mate only liked words that came out of Francis’s mouth. Not a negative trait by any means, but boring after a while.

Gilbert dined with him at the usual late, genteel time, and asked the obligatory question: “So, how is mated life?”

Francis chuckled. “I haven’t had Arthur long enough to make a fair assessment.”

Gilbert stabbed a piece of beef with his fork and raised his eyebrows. “You sound like Antonio.”

“ _Oui,_ I was trying to.” Francis took a sip of wine, pausing a moment to savor the rich taste on his tongue. He never loved his kingdom more than at mealtimes. What a wonderful land he lived in, to have food like this, the finest in the world! Francis regarded his friend. “Perhaps I should ask you now, how is unmated life? I never thought you would be the last of us to find someone.”

“Don’t lie to me, Francis.” Gilbert glared playfully across the table. Even in jest, the angry expression made a shiver prickle in the small of Francis’s back. Sometimes Gilbert seemed more wolf than man. “I’m in no hurry to mate,” he went on. “I can take care of myself.”

This was a sideways jab at pampered Alphas—like Francis—who needed Omegas to keep them ahead of household chores. It was true that many Alphas would be overwhelmed if they had their own jobs as well as Omega work to do. Still, it was inappropriate to draw explicit attention to this—not because it showed the importance of Omegas, but because it highlighted a lack in the skills of Alphas.

If any other Alpha—save Antonio—had said this to Francis, they would be thrown down the castle steps. But it was Gilbert, so Francis said simply, “Someday you’ll get lonely, that’s my prediction, _mon ami_.”

Gilbert arched a pale eyebrow, holding up a skewered bit of carrot. “I’ll have you and Antonio. I’ll have Ludwig. How could I get lonely?”

Francis shook his head. “It is different. A mate can be a friend, a family member—”

Gilbert smirked. “Francis, I had no idea you were so open-minded to incest.”

Francis tossed a corn kernel across the table. “Oh, you know what I mean. Mates can become like family, though of course they will never truly be. Ties to kin are naturally stronger than to mates. Blood is important.” The wine had loosed his tongue; he vaguely suspected he had started to ramble, but the words were satisfying to spin, so he continued. “But a mate, you know, a mate is never truly close to you. They are not joined to you by blood as family is. They are intimate, yes, more intimate than any other, but it’s Natural for them to be inferior. Family and friends, they’re different. They’re on the same basic level. But a mate is below, and yet also above, in a way. But never the same, you now?”

Gilbert’s brow furrowed slightly, a rather shifty expression, but he said nothing.

The conversation lulled, then moved on to lighter topics—the likelihood of rain, how lovely the food was, when the next hunt would be. In truth, Francis wasn’t paying much attention to what he and Gilbert were saying. His mind was wandering upstairs, to his bedroom, where his new mate was waiting to truly satisfy his needs for the first time . . .

“Would you like to stay longer, _mon ami_?” Francis asked as the servants cleared away the plates and platters.

Gilbert snorted in amusement. “I don’t want to keep you from breaking in your new Omega. I know you can’t wait.”

Francis smiled. Ah, his friends knew him so well. “That is very true, and considerate of you, Gilbert. I hope you enjoy your night as much as I do.”

“Ha.” Gilbert’s sense of humor sometimes had more derision to it than Francis would have liked. “Not likely. Good night to you, Your Highness.”

Francis normally would have walked him to the door, but he was too eager to see Arthur. He bounded up the stairs—well, bounded wasn’t a very regal and majestic word . . . he flowed up the stairs, graceful and swift, much better—and paused to peak into Matthew’s room. The bedroom was mostly dark; the sun had set, and any light still lingering in the sky was blocked by the drawn curtains. The soft lump in the crib did not stir. Francis pulled the door silently closed and went on to his bedroom. The chamber of love, as he had once called it, when he was young and probably drunk. As Antonio could attest: the best ideas came when intoxicated.

Arthur stood in profile, wearing the nightgown Francis had set out for him. It was white, silken, and hugged the Omega’s body with the perfect balance between tightness and looseness. The shin-length bottom was wide, for comfort about the legs; as it went up the body, it grew more snug, hinting at the delicious curve of the waist before at last clinging to the breasts—gentle swellings that they were—in a perfectly titillating manner.

“Ah, _mon amour_ ,” Francis pronounced, clasping his hands together. “You are a sight for the eyes and the heart to behold.” And some other body parts, as well, but he would soon get to that.

Arthur turned to face him, ducking his chin shyly. “It’s very soft. I’ve never felt anything this soft before.”  He dipped into a small curtsy. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Francis pursed his lips thoughtfully as he began to disrobe. “Come,” told his mate. “Assist me.” Arthur obediently approached and knelt to unbuckle Francis’s shoes. “Just for reference, Arthur,” Francis went on, unfastening the countless buttons that went into fashion, “around others, especially other Alphas, it is of course the expectation that you call me by my proper title.”

Arthur’s eyes flickered up at him hesitantly, unsure if he was in trouble or not.

Francis smiled, and spoke slowly, for the Omega was from the country, after all. “I am simply saying that in the privacy of this bedchamber, you may call me by my name, if you wish. Or you may find a pet name for me. I quite like English terms of endearment. So many are food, and I do love food. Honey, sugar, I have even heard cupcake! Anything sweet, it seems, means love. Do you understand?”

This last bit was because Arthur was staring up at him in bewilderment. Arthur’s expression cleared quickly, and he nodded. “Yes.”

“Oh, but still call me _sir_ when answering questions. Just so things remain normal. Natural.” Royal titles were one thing. The word of respectful address that all Omegas were required to give Alphas was another.

Arthur bowed his head to unbuckle the other shoe. His voice was soft. “Yes, sir.”

At last, Francis removed the final article of clothing—it was heaped like a dead indigo animal on the floor, for a servant to collect in the morning—and stood naked before his new mate. He could not say if he preferred to be nude or clothed. Both were comfortable and obviously gorgeous, but he had to admit some clothing was more useful than none. It definitely hindered sex, however, an unforgivable offense. _In the bedroom_ , Francis concluded, _there is no better way to be than completely naked._

Arthur was having a hard time keeping his gaze on Francis’s face, and the French Alpha laughed. “No need for modesty, _mon amour_. We are mates, are we not? Look at me all you want. I’m yours, and you’re mine.”

Arthur’s throat moved as he swallowed, and Francis stood still, allowing him to take in the lines and slopes of his body. He was not what one might call _muscular_ —Gilbert was, but Francis didn’t care for the guards’ regimen of physical activity. He wasn’t lazy, just languid. But the way he inhabited his rather furry body was what counted: if one knew they possessed beauty and acted like it, wonders were worked.

Francis stepped close to Arthur, cupping his face with one hand. The Omega’s cheek was smooth to the touch, but his skin had freckles and spots scattered around. There had been a time when ideal Omegas had pure white skin, to the point where they covered their faces in powder to achieve it, but things had slowly changed. Beauty had many different definitions now, and Francis was glad, because though he was not perfection by any means, his new mate was beautiful to him.

Arthur peered up at Francis, such a timid little thing.

“You don’t need to be scared,” Francis whispered to him. “There’s nothing to fear.”

Then he closed the space between them and pressed his lips to Arthur’s.

The Omega wasn’t the best kisser—a problem borne of inexperience and insecurity—but the wine in Francis’s veins blurred the edges of everything, so it was alright. He felt Arthur’s back, his lovely waist, sweet pillowy flesh that was sure to be even softer once the starved country bird got some good food into him. Arthur gasped against his lips when Francis squeezed his ass, and Francis smiled at the look of shock on the Omega’s face. The astonishment stayed on Arthur’s face, rising in intensity, as Francis moved him to his back on the bed and slid his hands up Arthur’s thighs, the nightgown slithering upward to pool like sea foam on Arthur’s concave stomach. Arthur’s eyes bulged, his lips parted and still wet from their kiss. Francis was the maestro to Arthur’s orchestra; he played with his mate’s body and the Omega responded with pants, then whimpers, then high moans, and at last the crescendo reached its peak, and Arthur begged with blind desperation for what he instinctively wanted, _needed_ : “Please—m-mate me, please!”

Francis had never needed to be asked twice, and tonight proved no exception. He mounted his Omega and was delighted to see Arthur’s head tip back into the pillows, eyes squeezed shut, his pleasure so exquisite Francis could all but taste it. Like the first bite of an apple, or the first footstep into a field of snow, there was nothing quite as euphoric as the first time of mating. Some—well, most—chose to do it when the Omega was in Heat, since sex with raging hormones was undeniably more exciting than without. But Francis appreciated the more delicate exchanges between mates. True, it was satisfying to throw everything you had into an exhausting, all-encompassing, carnal fuck that left you reeling and your mate sore for a week afterward. But there was something to be said for using your hands to please another, to mould an Omega into a trembling sculpture of sensuality.

Arthur’s final cry of the night was damp in Francis’s ear; he was kissing the soft skin of the Omega’s neck, and he groaned as his admirable stamina ran out. Francis stayed on top of his mate for a moment, breathlessly savoring the stars prickling through his limbs. He might have slept like that, but the mattress was softer than Arthur’s bony frame, so he shifted off and lay an arm across Arthur’s waist. Arthur smiled, still shy, and Francis smiled lazily back. “Thank you, _mon amour._ ”

Arthur blinked. “You’re thanking me? I—” He stopped himself. “You’re welcome, sir. And thank you.”

Francis closed his eyes, but his lips curled with mirth. “It was my pleasure.”


	9. Chapter 9

“The East is repressed and the North is perverted.

The West has the perfect balance.

Come taste some Western beauties.

Fresh and affordable Omegas.

Neither claimed nor tamed.”

_—an advertisement for a Western brothel_

 

The next morning, Lovino awoke to three shocks. One, it was not morning at all; noon sunlight illuminated the thin spots in the navy curtains. Two, he was not in his home; he was in the damn Spaniard’s house, and he had a mate, and the entire ordeal was not a nightmare he could wake up from. Three, he had a pair of arms around him. And a chest against his shoulders. And an abdomen against the small of his back. And something hard against his . . .

“What the _hell_ are you _DOING_?!” Lovino tore himself out of the Alpha’s embrace, moving to stand beside the bed. He tried to focus on his outrage, and the embarrassment that feuled it, rather than think about the small flicker of longing to return to the warmth and safety of those arms.

Antonio bolted upright in alarm, hazel eyes wild. “What? What’s wrong?”

Lovino tried not to stare at the Alpha’s lap, but the lump beneath the blanket drew his gaze. He’d never seen a dick before, and he was just curious, damn it. He’d half-expected to be fucked by one last night, but thankfully Antonio was the type to wait until Heat. The pair had awkwardly fallen asleep, with Lovino as close to the edge of the mattress as he could get without falling off. He sure as hell had not planned on waking up in this bastard’s evil clutches!

Lovino opened his mouth to let Antonio have it—the _nerve_ of grabbing him in his sleep—but then he remembered the promise he’d made the day before. _I’ll be careful._ He’d pinkie sworn to his brother, he had to honor it. Otherwise, what was he? _No better than a lying Alpha, that’s what._

“You . . .” Lovino let the flames inside him cool, lowering his voice. “You scared me. That’s all. And I was, whatever, I had a bad dream, I guess.” He gave a small shrug, then added as an afterthought, “Sir.”

Antonio stared at him, eyes still wide, incredulous. He looked like he was trying to determine if Lovino was mentally sound. Lovino fought a snort. _Should have figured that out before you picked me as your mate, dumb idiot._

“Uh . . . Well. I’m sorry I frightened you.” Antonio rubbed his eyes with both hands. For some reason, the gesture stuck out to Lovino. Wouldn’t an Alpha have just scrubbed a hand over his face? But then Antonio dropped his hands to his lap, where they brushed the lump. Antonio and Lovino both looked down at it, before Antonio eased the blankets away and kicked off the loose trousers he used as nightclothes. Lovino stared at the seemingly endless amount of bronze skin stretched out luxuriously on the bed. _So that’s what a penis is._ He didn’t really see what all the fuss was about. Alphas were awfully proud to have what amounted to a mindless appendage with a little pouch underneath.

Antonio spoke again, shattering Lovino’s moment of amused discovery. “Come here, Lovino,” he said, holding out a hand to him. His voice was only a little firm, but there was something in his eyes, something earnest and hungry. It left no room for humor.

 _I’ll be careful._ Lovino bit his tongue to keep from snapping at his mate. He’d promised. He could risk small indiscretions, but he wasn’t stupid enough to deny an Alpha something as sacred as pleasure. No one would even begin to defend him for that. It was an Alpha’s most basic right with his mate, and arguably an Omega’s simplest duty. After all, it was supposed to be _magical_ , right? Such a _wonderful_ feeling. Lovino had never believed all the romantic crap about Omegas enjoying sex outside of Heat, and even in Heat it was only physical, the body’s built-in need for stimulation. Lovino had never wanted that, and sleeping under Antonio Carriedo’s roof had not changed things.

But he had no choice. So Lovino rejoined Antonio on the bed, kneeling beside the Alpha, and placed his fingers into the bronze hand. Antonio took Lovino’s hand in a gentle grip, but with just enough force behind it that Lovino knew better than to test it. Antonio met Lovino’s gaze intensely as he fitted his mate’s fingers around himself. _He’s daring me_ , Lovino realized. _He wants me to be disrespectful like last night. So he can punish me._

Lovino would not give him the satisfaction.

Well. Not _that_ satisfaction, anyway.

Rubbing the Alpha was like polishing a bit of furniture, only there was no rag; it was just his skin on hot Spanish skin. At first it was tacky against his palm, but after a few moments—and a soft groan from Antonio as he began to move his hips—it gifted Lovino with some droplets that made the process slicker, smoother. He increased the tempo and glanced at Antonio’s face, but the Alpha had lain back, his head in the pillows, eyes closed in ecstasy.

And here was Lovino’s fourth shock of the day: he was enjoying this. There was something powerful about this ability to render an Alpha prone, the twitches of his hips and the catches of his breath, his body begging for the up-and-down to continue. Such a simple thing, upward and downward. Just friction. And yet the Spaniard ground into Lovino’s hand with an animal desperation as he neared the finish. Lovino sensed this, the feeling of anticipation, and he was tempted beyond words to stop the motion of his hand and torture his Alpha. How bittersweet that would feel for Antonio, clawing toward the peak, Lovino a mighty force at the summit throwing forth endless obstacles to halt his ascent.

But Lovino wasn’t mighty. And he suspected that, if he did try to make his Alpha skate on the edge of heaven, it would not be appreciated. In a way, it was worse than denying sex—it was denying the best moment of sex. Lovino didn’t want to test Antonio. Not because he was afraid—damn it—but because he didn’t want to be punished, whether it be a beating or a plucking or both. He had better things to do than hobble around in pain. And Feliciano would be heartbroken . . .

Lovino suddenly sickened of making Antonio feel good. Fortunately, in the same moment, Antonio let out a low groan, and Lovino’s services were no longer needed. Grimacing, he wiped his hand off on Antonio’s trousers, still bunched at the foot of the bed. The Spaniard gave no notice; he sprawled there with his eyes closed, chest heaving as he got his breath back.

Lovino stood and cleared his throat. He let a hint of mockery harden his words. “Will that be all, sir?”

Slowly, Antonio’s eyes blinked open. They were softer than Lovino had ever seen them; they looked rather pretty, Lovino grudgingly admitted. Not that any self-respecting Alpha would want to be called pretty, except maybe the king, but he was just ugly.

The Spaniard gave a small smile. “Yes, that was very good, Lovino. Well done.”

 _Oh, how romantic._ “Thank you. I’m honored that you enjoyed it. Sir.”

If Antonio could tell he was being less than genuine, he gave no sign of it. He simply stood, stretched his arms above his head, and sighed contentedly. “Such a nice way to start the day. And a nice way to sleep, too.” He regarded Lovino with amusement. “I didn’t sleep very well at first. It was so strange, having another person there next to me, in my own bed. But after you fell asleep and cuddled up with me, I fell asleep very fast.” He chuckled, eyes bright. He actually looked _fond_. “It’s a shame I didn’t get to watch you longer. You look so cute in your sleep.”

The flames roared within Lovino. He was surprised his body wasn’t glowing bright red. If someone had thrown a pail of water on him, it would have all gone up in steam the second it touched his skin. Fury, fury. He trembled with it, but he couldn’t let it show. He tucked his hands behind his back so Antonio wouldn’t see that they were fists. He felt his face and chest flush, and that made him all the angrier. _Damn you, you stupid tomato bastard! I hate you! Why would I want to cuddle with you?! You’re lying! I would never do that, even in my sleep! Even if I was in Heat! I’d rather cuddle a rabid shark than with you!_

But all he force out was, “Thanks.”

Antonio was already dressed and on his way out of the bedroom. “I’ll fetch the servants to make some breakfast—”

Lovino shoved past him. “I’ll do it.”

Antonio stared after him in surprise. “But you said you could only make—”

“I can make breakfast.” It was nearly snarled. Lovino hurried into the kitchen, his heart racing. Waiting for the door to slam against the wall, waiting for Antonio to rush in, hit him, throw him on the ground. Let out the punishing beast Lovino had glimpsed earlier. Do what any other Alpha would have already done at the first sign of sass. Of deformity.

But that door stayed closed. Lovino didn’t hear another sound in the house. He waited almost ten minutes, but the Spaniard never did a thing. So Lovino made breakfast, an omelet, though it took him longer than usual because Antonio’s kitchen had everything in the wrong place. He’d have to fix that. After all, what would an Alpha care about the state of his kitchen? He never went in there. He probably didn’t know what cupboards held what, anyway. It was likely the Omega servants who decided where things were kept in here. Lovino didn’t much care about them. They wouldn’t be cooking here for very long. Lovino knew that with certainty, because when he set the plate of food in front of Antonio, the Alpha smiled faintly and said, “Thank you, Lovino. This smells wonderful. You should eat, too. We’ll be going up to the castle when I’m finished. The High Alpha has asked me to teach his new mate the philosophies of Naturalism, and you’ll be joining us. You will both benefit from the lessons.”

Lovino bowed his head to hide the hatred in his eyes. He was quickly mastering the art of speaking one thing whilst saying another. Softening his words a little to make them sound grateful, he replied, “Oh, good! I can’t wait to learn, sir.”

And as Antonio stuffed his face and Lovino returned to the kitchen to eat what was left, he scowled murderously and thought, _I should have poisoned that damn omelet._


	10. Chapter 10

“It is Natural for Omegas to feel the need to serve,

and even to worship their Alphas.

After all, only the _bulbus glandis_ of the Alpha

can effectively soothe the Heat of the Omega.

It is a mercy of the Alpha to soothe the Omega.

Only the weakest of Alphas allow the scent of Heat to control them.”

_—The Book of Naturalism_

 

Arthur had never realized just how lazy royalty was. There were rumors, jokes, all that, but the reality of it—waking up with the noonday sun warming the bedroom—was a quaint shock, almost surreal in a way. If he’d slept in this late in the village, ha! Impossible to imagine, because it would never happen. Alistair woke a half hour past dawn without exception, and Arthur was to be up in enough time to give him breakfast. It was rarely a good meal. In fact, it was rarely a meal at all. All Alphas who contributed to a hunt were entitled to a ration of the meat, and since Alistair was a skilled hunter, they always had venison or rabbit or the occasional fish. The village fields gave corn and wheat, when natural disasters didn’t ruin everything. Corn was hardier and thus less valuable, so they usually had cornmeal. Other than that, they were too poor to have what the bigger families in the village had. Families with two or three generations and plenty of children—especially Alpha children—meant valuable skills that could be profited from. While some hunted, others could build, or forge metals, or sculpt things from clay. Art was often scorned by Alphas in the village, but not by those in the family of an artist. If they made something beautiful, and sold it to someone in the city—money! And with money, you could buy finery for your family, or you could save it up for something useful, like a goat or a cow—milk and, eventually, meat without needing to hunt it! The rich families of the village were like the tide of history embodied. But none of their Omegas slept in this late.

Beside him, hogging most of the blankets, Francis spread his arms to stretch and opened his mouth wide to yawn. So far, aside from the library, Arthur’s favorite part of being the king’s mate was the lack of stench. The people of the village bathed regularly as a whole, but regularly was relative. In the castle, it meant once a day. In the village, it meant once a week. The big families had metal basins they filled with fire-warmed water from their private well, but the rest of the rubes had to use streams, which meant that the _once a week_ rule could easily become _whenever it stops being so goddamn cold_ since Alistair was rather particular about subjecting himself to frostbite. (Given the extra bits Alphas had to worry about freezing off, Arthur couldn’t exactly blame him. But the smell of wolf musk got pretty terrible after a month or two.)

Francis heaved a content sigh as he went limp after his stretch. “How did you sleep, _mon amour_?”

“Quite well, sir.” Arthur had already started to adopt the posh phrasings of Francis and Antonio. _Quite well_ instead of _good_ or _fine_. It wasn’t a lie—he had slept quite well indeed, on this comfortable mattress, in this lovely nightgown, in this draftless castle, and of course, after their lovemaking last night. You couldn’t call it anything else. It wasn’t just sex, or a fuck, or even mating. It was a declaration of love. Arthur wasn’t sure if that was genuine love or just an infatuation, but he wasn’t afraid of Francis anymore. Surely if he treated his mate with this kindness, he wouldn’t be terrible to spend a life with. He wouldn’t be like Alistair.

 _Thank God_. Whomever. Arthur wasn’t religious, but he thought maybe he believed in fate. Could he be fated to fall in love with the High Alpha of Western Eurasia? Imagine!

Francis sighed again, a smaller exhalation of farewell, and hauled himself from bed. Arthur watched him, and wondered yet again how he could be so comfortable in his own skin to strut around naked. It was his bedchamber, granted, but when he was naked Arthur always walked with his knees knocking together, hands half-lifted to cover himself, no matter where he was. Francis disappeared into his closet—Arthur had only glimpsed inside, but it seemed to be as big as the bedroom and absolutely full of colorful clothes—and came back in a thick robe, with another in his arms. “Come, Arthur. We will bathe, and then I believe Antonio and his Omega shall be here to begin your training. So exciting, hm?”

Arthur padded after his mate, nervous thoughts poking around in his skull. The least dangerous question was the one he went with: “When will we have breakfast?”

Francis paused in the middle of the hall, regarding Arthur with a bemused furrow to his brow. “Whenever we are hungry, of course.”

Arthur blinked, then ducked his head. “Yes, right, of course.” Francis was in charge of everything. He didn’t have anyone to tell him it was mealtime. He decided when he ate, and it mattered not if anyone else was inconvenienced by it, because what could they do? Complain?

Arthur didn’t think all of this would go to his head, but he found himself holding his chin higher than usual as they walked down the stairs and down another small, spiraled staircase. A short, rather dark passage took them to the “bath room” which was, in Arthur’s mind, like walking into a warm cloud.

“Steam,” said the king, smiling at the look of wonder on Arthur’s face. The room was full of grey haze, and indeed, it was steam. A damp-haired Omega stood in each corner of the room, a bucket in hand, and at Francis’s word, they poured water on a collection of stones which had spent the morning within a hearth, warming.

The servants left with deep bows, and Arthur watched the king disrobe—literally, leaving his and the robe intended for Arthur on a bench along the wall. In the center of the room, Arthur could just barely see the bath, a large dip in the floor filled with murky, pale grayish water. Francis slipped heedlessly into the water; it went up to his hips, standing. Arthur was relieved to see it wasn’t too deep. It wasn’t that he couldn’t swim, just that he was dangerously bad at it.

“Come on, Arthur,” Francis said, with a light edge of impatience. “Before the water cools.”

Arthur lifted his nightgown over his head and, shy to be watched, even though Francis had been more intimate with him than anyone else, he hurried down into the water.

The steam had left a film of wetness on the floor, and that was where the trouble began.

The step within the bath—which also doubled as a seat—was slippery with soap, and that was where the trouble was confirmed.

Arthur’s natural clumsiness would have made it a risky endeavor under normal conditions, but his haste sealed the deal. His feet shot out from beneath him and his arms flew out to stabilize himself. Something within him must have known he would wind up cracking his head open on the stone floor, however, because in that split second—long before the king could begin to move—he was up, his spread arms were wings, and he flapped himself clear of gravitational danger.

There was no breeze in this sealed room, no thermals apart from the hot air rising from the stones and, to a much lesser extent, the bath. Arthur couldn't soar in here; he could barely stay afloat once he lifted up. If he had any manner of escape available, he would readily take it, rather than face the king with this . . .  bird of prey. Of shame.

_What will he do? Will he really want to marry an Omega who turns into a harrier?_

Francis had jerked to his feet in the bath, trying to catch his mate, but now he only stood, arms slack at his sides, water rocking and splashing at his waist. His eyes were wide, understandably. Who would ever expect such a bird to come from Arthur? It would be like little Matthew turning into an eagle.

“That is . . . quite the form, Arthur,” the king said, jaw a bit slack. “Come . . .” He stepped to the edge of the bath and offered an arm to Arthur. “Come here.”

As gently as he could, Arthur hopped up onto the king’s forearm, careful not to dig his talons into the soft skin. Arthur almost trembled. Would the king slam a hand down on him, drown him here in the steamy water? Maybe he could fight his way out, if he could peck Francis’s face, or maybe get his talons up—

_What am I thinking?! I can’t hurt an Alpha! Especially not this one! It’s not my place!_

But when it was life and death, did place still matter?

Arthur perched there on the High Alpha’s arm for what felt like hours as Francis stared at him, taking in the reds, browns, whites of his feathers. With a gentle fingertip, Francis traced the deadly curve of Arthur’s beak. Arthur was astonished to see wonder, even _admiration_ , in Francis’s gaze.

“Such beautiful, intense eyes,” he whispered. “If I was a bird, I would want to be like you, _mon amour._ ”

If he was a bird? When had an Alpha ever said that? It was a sign of weakness! It was like biological treason! Was Arthur dreaming?

“Spread your wings,” Francis ordered, still at a whisper.

Arthur tightened his grip on the arm by a degree and unfolded his wings. He seemed a lot bigger with his nearly four-foot wingspan at full expansion. Francis seemed almost reverent, reaching toward a wing as if to touch the gown of a deity.

He never touched, however, because upstairs—in the great hall—a Spanish man called, “King Francis! Where are you, Your Majesty? Did you sleep in late again?”

Francis moved his arm in such a way that Arthur knew he was meant to hop off. He landed on the edge of the bath and returned to his human form, quickly sliding into the water.

Francis submerged himself entirely for a moment, then rose up, water caressing his body as it sluiced down. He looked like a statue of a man beneath a waterfall. He looked like a regal water god humbled into human form.

He tipped his head back, steam curling around his slightly reddened skin, and sighed shortly. Not the at-ease exhalations he’d given earlier. He did not speak his mind. He simply said, “Bathe quickly. I will set out clothes for you to wear in the bedroom. Once you are dressed, you will meet Antonio and Lovino in the library.”

And with that, Francis got out of the water, wrapped himself in his robe, and left Arthur alone with thoughts as murky as the water he soaked in.

 

. . .

 

And so began the lessons.

When Arthur finally went to the library—with Francis nowhere to be seen along the way, but that wasn’t surprising in a huge house with likely a dozen hidden rooms and passageways—there was no time to greet Lovino. The younger Omega sat with his arms crossed in a chair that, while of excellent quality and craftsmanship, looked old and drab with such a youthful, fervent creature seated on it. Antonio smiled at Arthur; so far, he was the only Alpha Arthur knew who always had a cheerful expression. Even when he wasn’t smiling, there was a friendly light in his hazel eyes.

“Welcome, Arthur,” said Antonio. “Take a seat there beside Lovino. As you know, I’ve been asked to teach both of you all you need to know about Naturalism, and to prepare you both as much as I can for the wedding ceremony.”

Something about that seemed off to Arthur. Was it really an Alpha’s area of expertise, how to best act as an Omega? Wouldn’t it be better to have an Omega teach them? _No, that wouldn’t work_ , he supposed. _That would put an Omega in a position of authority. We can’t have that._

He tried to catch Lovino’s eye, but the Italian beside him seemed to be elsewhere, despite his intensity. The only sign he gave that he was listening was to grunt when Antonio said his name.

From the fancy, small oak bookcase, Antonio picked up one of the gold-titled books. _The Book of Naturalism._ Arthur wondered again why there were so many copies of the same book. His face must have betrayed his puzzlement, because Antonio said, “Each volume is different. Some are in different languages, others have slightly different interpretations. No one knows what language the teachings were originally written in, but they’ve been translated countless times. They’re our way of life, after all.” He opened the book, cleared his throat, and began to read.

Arthur wondered if Antonio was reading from the English version, or the Spanish and translating himself. Either way, there was something very . . . detached about the way it was written. It was extremely dry, formal, and scientific. It was undeniable that it had been written by an Alpha, because every mention of Omegas was joined with _inferior_ or _meager_ , and Alphas were referred to as the _dominant, superior, saviors of the fair Omega sex._ As Antonio read, Lovino’s eyes narrowed, flames flickering in their brown depths. He looked like he wanted to rip the book from his mate’s hands and beat him with it. Arthur recalled the thoughts of fighting Francis he’d had in the bath. Was this normal? It was never spoken about, but was it normal for Omegas to have hidden anger toward Alphas? And it was just a matter of being excellent at hiding it? It was a real possibility, of course it was, but Arthur couldn’t help but doubt it. Other Omegas seemed so content in their roles. It never occurred to them to rise up. Rise up? It would be like a tree rising up against being chopped down. How could it fight? Yes, it stood among others of its kind and was supported by its roots, but against the undeniable power of an Alpha’s axe, of his will to dominate? What chance was there?

“The basic ideal of Naturalism,” Antonio was reading, “is that the two entities of life be in balance with each other. The Alpha. The dominant, the strong, the leader. And the Omega. The submissive, the weak, the follower. Both need one  to fully realize the other. Life would not be possible without the Alpha’s seed, nor would it be possible without the Omega’s egg. Only through a Natural balance can our species flourish and thrive.”

 _A balance?_ Arthur thought. _But isn’t a balance supposed to be equal?_

Even if Arthur had the courage to say that, he didn’t have time. Antonio closed the book and immediately began instructions on curtsying. Arthur thought he would have no trouble with this, considering Alistair’s merciless lessons before he’d gone to meet the king (was that really just a day ago? It felt like an entire lifetime). But it turned out that curtsying was complicated business. There were times when a full dip was required, and others when a simple head inclination was more appropriate. “Sometimes you shouldn’t draw attention to yourself,” Antonio explained as he demonstrated a more subtle, upper-body bow. “Such as when Francis, Gilbert, and I are having a meeting. If you were leaving the room, you would do a small bow before exiting.”

“How would you even see it?” Lovino grumbled, glumly mirroring Antonio’s posture. “If we’re at the door and you’re talking, you won’t be watching us.”

Arthur held his breath, but Antonio didn’t yell or even seem irritated. He just smiled and said, “But you’ll be in the corner of our eyes. We will know, trust me. As the _Book of Naturalism_ says. An Omega’s true, basic duty is to serve Alphas.”

Lovino didn’t give any response, aside from a tiny, frustrated sigh. He was having trouble bending _just so_ in his curtsies. Arthur was more flexible, but he struggled too. Antonio, on the other hand, could perform every iteration of a respectful duck without issue. When Alistair taught Arthur, he only used words and rough adjustments to Arthur’s legs; he never demonstrated. Antonio was so adept, Arthur would have thought he was an Omega himself if he didn’t know better.

Arthur’s legs were trembling by the time Francis appeared in the doorway. He smiled shyly at his mate, but Francis didn’t look at him; his amused gaze was on Antonio. “You don’t have to do that, _mon ami_. There are plenty of servants to assist you in teaching.”

The Spaniard turned, his smile far brighter for the king than it was for the Omegas. “Oh, I don’t mind. Besides, it’s good exercise. Got to stay nimble, right?”

Francis chuckled. “I suppose we do. I prefer to exercise in the bedroom.” He waved a hand as if ushering aside the current topic to move on to another. “I am becoming famished. Shall we lunch?”

“We shall.” Antonio stepped away to join his friend in the doorway, then glanced back at his pupils. “Are you two ready to eat?”

Arthur and Lovino exchanged a glance—the first time Lovino had looked at him since that jealous glare at the line-up—and simultaneously inclined their heads, replying in unison, “Yes, sir.”

Francis gave his hands a gleeful clap. “Aha! They are like twins already, how lovely. Lovino will be a perfect maid of honor for Arthur. Oh, and did I tell you, Toni? I spoke to Ludwig, his mate will be the page. Of course, it would be best if Gilbert’s mate could do it, but what can we do, _oui_? We must make do with what we have.”

Lovino shot Arthur an accusing look as they followed a few steps behind their Alpha mates. Arthur could only look surprised, and a little embarrassed. This was the first concrete details he’d heard about the fabled wedding. So Lovino would be his maid of honor. A stranger. _Well, I guess that’s fitting. I’m marrying a stranger, too. Everyone in this new life is a stranger. Even me._ He also wondered what a page was, but that was a question for later. Now he just stared down at the floor while Lovino glared at him.

Arthur and Lovino weren’t asked to assist in the kitchen—it seemed everyone knew they would only get in the way. Instead, they ate at a small table in a room near the dining room that seemed to be a simple sitting room. A bookshelf, several chairs, a sofa, and a painting of three people: the king, a baby, and a woman. Francis had his arm around the woman’s waist, and both of them stared lovingly down at the sleeping child she held.

“Is that King Francis’s first mate?” Arthur asked, pointing to the painting as the servants set down their plates.

The servants gave no reply aside from a hint of a nod from one. Arthur had never seen them look anything but exhausted. How long did they work all day? He had yet to find a single speck of dust in the castle, but he never saw anyone cleaning. Did they do it at night? And serve through the day? What sort of life was that?

“Obviously,” Lovino replied scornfully, tearing into his meat like an animal.

Arthur looked across the table at him. “You know,” he said quietly, “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but you are technically below me in rank.”

Now Lovino snorted with enough scorn to poison a squirrel. “Congratulations.”

Arthur suspected pulling rank wasn’t the way to make friends, so he tried another tactic. “I didn’t get to choose my maid of honor, it was them who chose it. But if I could choose, I’d still choose you.”

Lovino sawed through his food with a lot more force than necessary. His voice was cross, but there was something, a glimmer of doubt in his eyes. “Why the hell would you do that? You don’t even know me.”

“No,” Arthur agreed. “I don’t. But I’d like to. Our mates are friends. And there isn’t really a way for us to—well, maybe it’s just me, I don’t know. But up here, it seems very isolated. We’re so above everyone else, in rank and in placement in the city. It just seems like it’ll be hard to make friends.” He looked down at his food and shrugged. “No, never mind. You’re from here, right? So you probably already have lots of friends. Forget I said anything. I apologize.”

It was a long moment before anything happened. At first, Arthur didn’t realize what was happening when Lovino moved his plate against Arthur’s. Then Lovino started forking slices of marbled ham onto Arthur’s plate.

“Here,” Lovino said gruffly, almost reminding Arthur of his big brother. “You’re too skinny, damn it. I can’t be a maid of honor to somebody who’s going to faint in the aisle.”

Taken aback, Arthur watched Lovino sit back in his chair and pull his plate back toward himself. The Italian picked up his glass of cider—not wine, reminding Arthur of the half-decade difference in their ages—and met Arthur’s gaze over the rim of the glass. There was a challenge in those eyes, like there always was. A defensiveness that was almost endearing. _Yeah, I was kind to you. What of it, bastard?_

Arthur smiled. “Thank you. Or, uh, _merci_.”

Lovino rolled his eyes. “I don’t speak that frog language. I say _thank you_ or I say _grazie_.”

“Oh, okay, um.” Arthur cleared his throat. “ _Grazie_?”

Lovino stared at him for a moment, then shook his head and returned his attention to his food. “Stick with English, _britanno._ ”

Arthur ducked his chin a little, but his smile stayed throughout the meal, and though they ate in silence, whenever he glanced up from his food, he found Lovino’s intense brown eyes staring back at him.


	11. Chapter 11

“My dearest, my blade, my night:

Nothing has ever made me happier

than becoming your mate . . . Although,

thinking about the frilly weddings they hold in the South

may be a close second for the humor of it.

Those _[unintelligible]_ idiots

don’t know the first thing about love.”

 _—Mathias_ _Køhler, writing (very messily) to Lukas Bondevik_

 

“A gold piece for your thoughts.”

Francis glanced up from his plate, where he had been toying with his food for the past ten minutes without putting any of it to his lips. Antonio was watching him with a rather concerned expression, and Francis wondered—not for the first time—what his advisor would do if something happened to him. They had always been the best of friends. How could they not be? They had grown up together, quite literally; Francis’s earliest memories all contained Antonio, eating together, sleeping over (always Antonio at the castle), playing. A rush of nostalgia swelled, warm and bittersweet, in Francis’s chest. Though he would never admit it, and truthfully he was hardly aware of it himself, there was a part of Francis that missed the early days, when he was a blissfully unaware child, when his days were just he and Antonio together. Gilbert came later, after his father had been promoted and moved closer to the castle, and it was a known thing that Gilbert would become the highest ranking guardsman just as his father had. Of course he would be friends with Francis and Antonio. It was just one of those things. Royalty and aristocracy was not about personal affinity; it was not a puzzle with pieces fitting together just so. It was more like a chess board, with rigid squares of space, and a different creature in each. Proximity mattered. Rank mattered. Had he ever questioned why he was friends with Gilbert? No, of course not. Had he ever questioned why he was friends with Antonio?

He had not let himself. The questions were entirely different, in a way he was too terrified to consider.

Antonio was starting to look quite expectant now, so Francis grabbed at the first response that came to mind. “Ah, just thinking about the wedding,” he lied. “These are exciting times. So much will be happening.” The dishonesty, directed at his friend, was a needle in his heart, so he softened it by adding some truth: “I almost wish it could be skipped.”

The Spaniard’s eyebrows spiked. “ _You_ don’t want to have a wedding? No feast, no celebrations? That doesn’t sound like you.”

Francis allowed a smile. It was quite lovely to be so well known. “I suppose it is just cold feet. I think this marriage will be . . . different from the last. This mate is different. There is a certain . . . strength within him that is not in most Omegas.”

 _Strength_ was an understatement. His mate was a bird of prey. He had never expected that. The possibility hadn’t even entered his mind. Arthur was so plain in human appearance, Francis had felt sure he’d at last gotten a normal mate. The first, the last, she was . . . well, he supposed she was fine. She’d come from the capital; she was the daughter of one of the finest tailors. She had no trouble fitting in, and she was adept with a needle and thread (though, as far as Francis was concerned, a ripped hem was simply an excuse to buy more lovely clothes). But her eyes, like the eyes of the servants, were empty. Even when they first met, there was hardly a spark in them. Francis had never wondered about it—he’d simply assumed she was dim-witted—but now it occurred to him that perhaps it was something more. Perhaps that obedient quality so many Alphas wanted in an Omega was not simply from a natural desire to be ordered about. Perhaps . . .

“. . . what I think. Francis?” Antonio was waving a hand at him. “Did you hear what I said?”

Francis smiled apologetically. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t. I am being a terrible dining companion for you, I’m too distracted for even conversation.” He leaned back in his chair, tipping his head back and running his hands through the golden waves of hair. “ _Oh._ So many things inside my head, it feels like there is not enough room.”

Antonio smiled back, the same warm smile he’d had since they were children. Antonio had always seemed the innocent of the trio, even in smiles. Francis’s lips always whispered of sensual nights and rich wine; Gilbert’s grins were nothing but teeth and cunning red eyes. But Antonio was so _safe_. There was never any doubt of his loyalty. And there wasn’t really with Gilbert, either. Not really.

“Don’t worry,” Antonio said. “It’s understandable to feel flustered. You were worse than this the day you took your father’s place. Do you remember? You could hardly catch your breath.”

Francis did remember. He’d been in his bedchamber, dressing for the ceremony that would officially name him High Alpha, and every future problem, every possible _what if_ , had come crashing down on him. Antonio had found him and put a hand on his shoulder and said simply, _Respirer._ It was the second time Francis had heard Antonio speak his language, and it was such a comfort, the softness of the _S_ between his lips, that Francis listened and breathed, and seven minutes after that, he named himself king before the gathered citizens, with Gilbert and Antonio looking on proudly.

“Thank you again, for that,” Francis murmured, fingertips brushing his friend’s bronze hand.

Antonio didn’t meet his gaze. He moved his hand away, picked up his glass, sipped, set it down again, and replied, “You’re welcome, of course. You would have done the same for me, right?”

“Right.” Francis didn’t have to think about that, at least. “So, have you made any progress with Lovino? He still looks nothing like an Omega. In the face, I mean. The eyes. You know?”

The Spaniard sighed, nodding. “I know. He is so upset all the time, but I don’t know why. Omegas don’t have anything to be upset about, especially the mates of you and me. They have more status of any Omega in Western Eurasia. And yet . . .” He shrugged, twirling his fork on his crumb-littered plate with the unpleasant sound of metal tines on porcelain. Both Alphas winced, and he stopped. “Gilbert said he’s always been that way. Grumpy. Easily frustrated. The complete opposite of his little brother.”

“Feliciano is a lovely Omega.” With a normal bird form, a cute little plover if Francis recalled correctly. Small enough to fit in Arthur’s wicked beak. “Have you seen Lovino’s bird form yet?”

Antonio shook his head. “No, I haven’t. Have you seen Arthur’s?”

“ _Oui._ ” Francis pursed his lips slightly. “It is . . . a harrier.”

“A harrier? Like a hawk?”

“Bigger.”

Antonio sat back in his chair, expressionless. “. . . Wow.”

“I know!” Francis let his forehead rest on the tabletop and groaned. “It could cause serious trouble if people knew. They could band together, call him Deformed. How could I choose between my mate and my citizens?”

There was no response for a long moment, and just as Francis looked up, he felt Antonio’s touch on his shoulder, soft and warm. It brought him back two decades, when they had been little more than eleven, standing together in one of the sitting rooms. _Let’s play Alpha and Omega_ , Antonio had suggested. Francis had never heard of such a game. _My father told me they play it a lot in the North_ , Antonio insisted. _One of us pretends to be an Omega, and we play like we’re mates._ Francis wasn’t sure about it, but he agreed, though of course, Antonio had to be the Omega. He didn’t seem to mind, however. He bowed to Francis and pretended to cook him a meal on the stove (which was really a sofa). Francis, getting into the roleplay, had said, _Oh, thank you, dear._ Antonio had smiled his warm smile and bowed again, this time getting down on his knees, a sign of utmost respect. Even real Omegas rarely kneeled, unless they were being punished. Francis wasn’t sure what Antonio had wanted him to do, but he never found out, because at that moment Gilbert came bursting in, wanting to hunt rabbits in the meadows. _What are you two doing?_ Antonio had leapt up. _Just playing. Let’s go!_ And they’d all gone out, Francis and Antonio rather useless at hunting, but Gilbert catching a rabbit fat enough for the trio to share. They had never discussed the game. Francis hadn’t thought about it much, until now.

_The barriers feel weaker now. The balance isn’t as sure as I thought. Maybe . . . maybe times are changing._

Francis turned in his chair and looked up at Antonio, who gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Everything will turn out alright in the end,” the Spaniard assured him. “It always does.”

Francis smiled. “ _Oui_ ,” he agreed. “I am sure it will.”

_But at what cost?_

 

. . .

 

The wedding preparations were endless, and Antonio seemed to be at the heart of them all. With Francis, he handled the order of the ceremony, the guest list, the food to be served, the music to be played, the wardrobe for those involved (Lovino had to wear a damn dress with _flowers_ sewn into the lace). With the Omegas, it was rehearsals interspersed with the old lessons of obeisance. Lovino caught himself feeling guilty for agreeing to it all, until he remembered—with annoyance—that he’d been forced into it and any guilt he felt was because he wanted Arthur to have a good wedding. It was a new sensation, this whole “friendship” situation. He wasn’t sure yet if it counted as a real friendship, considering the fact that—aside from during meals—they really didn’t have any time to actually talk with each other. Arthur’s every waking moment was taken up by something related to the wedding: trying on an infinite amount of gowns, and holding bouquets to see which best complimented his skin tone, and rehearsing the lines he was expected to say during the ceremony.

The rehearsals were the only things Lovino was needed for, and he guessed he didn’t mind them, but they were boring after the tenth time. Feliciano was brought in for some of them; it turned out a page was someone who carried the train of the bride’s dress, so it wouldn’t get dirty. Lovino didn’t see the point of that—they were going to roll out crimson carpets in the city square, so there was no risk of anything getting onto the dress—but Feliciano was honored to even be considered for the position, so if it made him happy, Lovino supposed there was nothing too wrong with it.

They were rehearsing at the moment, though Feliciano was absent; Ludwig was home with a stomach flu, so his mate was nursing him. _Not so tough after all, huh? Got a sore tummy? Poor puppy._

“I take you as my mate and wife,” Antonio said, the words Francis would be saying in a week’s time. There was something wistful in his expression. _Probably wishing he could get married to me_ , Lovino thought, rolling his eyes. Only royalty bothered with the formality of a wedding, for that’s all it was; a meaningless ceremony. By the way Arthur smelled, his Heat would be soon. Francis would claim him before they were wed. They would be true mates before they were husband and wife. The claiming was what mattered.

 _I could run away,_ Lovino thought, _and no one could say I’m Antonio’s mate._ He had the Spaniard’s scent on his skin, yes, from sleeping beside him, but he bore no bitter Alpha-scent on the inside. Unlike Arthur. Even Lovino could smell that Francis worked him every night. He’d been tempted countless times to ask Arthur about it, but the words tangled in his throat before he could get them out. He’d never been comfortable talking about sex. Feliciano had been eager to discuss it, but that had been even worse. His own brother! And that stupid blond German, damn it. He’d cried, _Shut up! I don’t want to hear about that potato bastard in bed!_ And he’d turned away, quickly, in case his brother looked hurt.

He knew he wouldn’t be in the dark forever. His own Heat would come soon, as well, probably a week after Arthur’s, a week and a half at the most. Some Omegas had a predictable cycle their bodies followed. Some were affected by living with other Omegas; Heats had been known to match up in some households, which could be a blessing and a curse. Others had Heats the first week of one month and the last week of the next, completely unpredictable. Lovino’s had always been like this, scattered. He knew some Alphas thought that was a sign of being unhealthy. He’d been checked by a doctor—a damn embarrassment, some stranger poking about between his legs and feeling how soft his chest was—and he’d declared him healthy and said he suspected once Lovino had become pregnant for the first time, his Heats would even out. To his credit, Ludwig had never bothered Lovino about it. Gilbert, upon hearing the prognosis, had laughed and said, _Guess I’d better get to work, huh, Omega?_

Back in the days when Gilbert had joked about claiming him. Lovino was surprised they had stayed jokes. Everyone expected Gilbert to mate Lovino when Ludwig and Felicano got together, but the guard captain had never made a move. And, once Lovino’s temper became evident in the household, Gilbert stopped joking and took to glaring, snarling, and—on one terrible day—beating him. Lovino usually didn’t mind dwelling on negative things, but that day . . . he didn’t like thinking about it. He’d gotten plenty of smacks through the years, for being insolent in various ways. But he’d only been really _beaten_ once, that day. He remembered the greyness of the overcast sky, such a terrible dark day, a day no one would be happy to be alive. Gilbert wasn’t happy. The house was full of rising tension as Feliciano and Lovino served Ludwig and Gilbert their supper. It was like the moment right before a strike of lightning; hair on end, breath held, anticipation sharpening into dread. It hadn’t even been the biggest mistake that caused it, either. Lovino just misjudged where he should set down a dish of butter, and his hand knocked over Gilbert’s tea—right into the Alpha’s lap. It wasn’t scalding. Not hot enough to burn bare skin, definitely not hot enough to burn through clothes. But hot enough to make Gilbert leap to his feet, teeth bared, and grab Lovino by the hair to drag him outside. Not out the back door, into the alley. Out the front. Lovino got a glimpse of the street; no Omegas out at this hour, but some Alphas were strolling, and looked over curiously. Then Lovino was on the ground, seeing nothing but the cobbles of the lane, his body throbbing with pain. He didn’t remember much of the beating itself, just bits and pieces. Gasping for breath as Gilbert kicked his stomach, over and over. Feliciano sobbing inside the house. Ludwig’s voice— _That’s enough now, Gilbert_ —and then a pale tawny paw in front of Lovino’s face. At the time, he’d thought Ludwig was about to do the honors and tear his throat open himself. But now he realized the German must have been standing over him, protecting him from further punishment.

 _Not because he cares about me,_ Lovino thought, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched Antonio and Arthur act out the future. _Just because he didn’t want Gilbert to seem too crazy in public. It’s a sign of weakness to allow an Omega to piss you off into a fit, after all._ The beating wasn’t even what made him angry, in retrospect. _What was he doing, asking Feliciano to make him tea in the first place? The one damn day he decides to drink tea instead of beer. Stupid Germans. Stupid Alphas. Damn it._

“Lovino!” Antonio actually looked angry for once, but he still looked basically harmless. Just a growling pup, playing at aggression. “Stop that!”

Lovino hadn’t even realized he was gnawing at his finger, his teeth bared. He quickly let his lips cover them, but said, “I have a hangnail.”

Antonio shook his head, incredulous. “Omegas don’t— _bite_ at things like that.”

Arthur looked at Lovino, a hint of sympathy in his eyes, but something else . . . amusement? Anger flared in Lovino. But, wait, it was amusement, but not at Lovino. Arthur cut his gaze to Antonio and gave his head a tiny, exasperated shake. As if to say, _Alphas, they’re mad, aren’t they?_

The warm feeling of finding a comrade was enough to make Lovino duck his head to his mate. “Sorry, sir. I’ll try to get rid of it in a way more appropriate for an Omega like me.”

Now Arthur had to raise a hand to cover his mouth, feigning a yawn, though Lovino could tell he was smiling. Lovino smiled, too, the curl of his lip barely visible with his head ducked. Antonio glanced back and forth between of them, aware of some sort of exchange but unable to tell what it was, then returned to the rehearsal of wedding lines. But now, every time Antonio looked away, Arthur and Lovino looked to each other and stuck their tongues out at the Alpha, or silently flapped their mouths to mock his constant jabber. By the time Antonio looked back, of course, they wore perfectly innocent faces. But they knew. Lovino knew, and it felt thrilling.

This was the beginning.


	12. Chapter 12

“The Alpha’s most powerful sense is that of smell.

The nose of the wolf is excellent for tracking;

cases have been documented wherein Alphas could detect

Omegas in heat from over a mile away.

In contrast, the Omega’s best sense is that of sight.

Useful only for seeing danger from afar

and fleeing in the opposite direction.”

_—The Book of Naturalism, on Senses_

 

Arthur knew it was coming. It was always during the second week of the month, without fail, and the signs were there even if he wasn’t paying attention to the time. His chest felt more tender than usual, his nipples slightly puffy; his legs felt uncomfortable when he crossed them, preferring to be spread wide; and each night he gathered the blankets around himself with increasing urgency and compulsion, that unquestionable voice of instinct whispering within him. _Nest_ , it said. _Make a safe place for you and your mate._ He wasn’t sure if the mate in question was aware of what was happening or not. It seemed pretty obvious to him, but then again, were Alphas not infamous for being oblivious? (Among other unflattering adjectives Arthur could think of.) Francis mated Arthur with more vigor than before, these past nights, and spent more time sniffing his neck, the crooks of his limbs, between his legs—any place scent collected. Arthur couldn’t imagine getting much enjoyment from sniffing under Francis’s arms, but the Alpha seemed to enjoy it. An Alpha thing, Arthur suspected. Wolfish behavior.

So it did not come as much surprise when he told Francis, “My Heat will start today,” and Francis simply nodded and replied, “ _Oui_ , I suspected.”

What _was_ surprising was that Francis told Arthur he would handle everything, that he need not leave the bed, as if he could read Arthur’s mind and knew the Omega really didn’t want to leave his nest. In Heat, the comfort zones were layered and always centered around the nest. Arthur could have left the bed if he wanted to, and felt alright in the bedchamber. Out in the hallway, he would feel uncomfortable. Out of the castle wasn’t even a possibility. He couldn’t imagine going so far from his nest. He would feel so vulnerable; _if_ his legs could even carry him down all those stairs. Heat was not a time for athletics, aside from the sex. Arthur’s body, right now, wanted only to lie on its back or brace itself on hands and knees, perhaps. In the house in the village, he would be trembling in a ball beneath a woolly blanket right now, with Alistair sitting outside the door grumpily, snarling at any Alphas who came near. But now he lay in Francis’s bed, comforted a little by the lingering Alpha-scent, and waited for his mate to do as he claimed.

He didn’t have to wait long. As Arthur’s Heat came in, slowly at first, rippling like rays of early morning sunlight, a foreshadowing of the burning waves of desperation that would come later, Francis came back in the room, holding a tray of food and wine. Arthur was shocked to see an Alpha carrying a tray; it looked as absurd as a fish walking about on land with a hat and cane. The thought—and his general state of pre-hysteria—made a smile tug at Arthur’s lips.

“Yes, smile, _cheri_ ,” Francis said, looking at him lovingly. “You look so beautiful with your cheeks so rosy. How they bring out your eyes! And the smell of you . . .” He inhaled in the direction of the bed, and his body actually shivered a little as he exhaled. His voice was thicker now, huskier, his smile sort of helpless. “It is almost too good to resist.”

Arthur spread his legs a bit wider under the blankets. Oh, how he wanted the king to pin him down. It was only a want, right now, but he knew within an hour’s time it would be the most fiery, unstoppable _need_ , a need he had spent his entire life unable to satiate. In the village house, he would hear the Alphas barking and calling to each other outside, and he would wish any of them would come in and mount him. Any of them, or all of them, he didn’t care as long as someone filled the emptiness inside him. He even found himself longing for Alistair at times, as disgusting as that was. But that was the truth, the animal truth of it. Anything for the relief. Anything to ease the Heat away.

“No one will come through this hall until your Heat passes,” Francis told Arthur as he poured himself a glass of wine. “Would you like one? No? You will have to eat at some point, _mon amour_ , though I know it is the last thing on your mind. A servant will leave a tray for each meal at the top of the stairs, and I will go get it, if either of us are in the mood to eat at the time. Do you think you will be able to handle my absence for that?”

Arthur regarded his mate in shock. How could he know an Omega so well, and be so caring about comfort levels during Heat and give such lovely feelings to Arthur each night, and yet still treat Omegas so poorly as people? None of it made any sense, and if they all just took a step back, they would . . . they would see . . .

“Drink,” Francis said suddenly, and Arthur’s eyes flew open. When had they closed? His mate was sitting beside him on the bed, legs off the side, holding a glass to his lips. Wine? No, just water. Arthur sipped a little, realized how thirsty he was, and downed the whole thing. Francis set the glass on the floor and said, “I thought you were getting dehydrated. You were on your way to fainting, it looked like. I wanted to do this a little slower, so you would be most comfortable, but I think we’d better just get this first time out of the way. _Oui_?”

Arthur was in no position to argue. He wanted to say _thank you_ for the drink, and the kindness and the everything, but all he could whimper was, “Now.” He noticed how Francis’s robes had tented in his lap, and he pawed at his mate’s groin, moving to nuzzle it. He didn’t know anything about this, but he knew he needed to get that fleshly weapon out, out, out, so it could come in, in, in. The muscles of his thighs tightened at the thought. _Now,_ he thought, a mantra. _Now. Now._

Francis obliged, stripping quickly—too quickly, the savage rip of cloth driving both of them further into their respective frenzies—and tugging the blankets off of Arthur. The Omega lay there, completely naked, already drenched, legs akimbo, darkening the blankets beneath him with sweat and slick, the combined scents of which rose up into the air, the pungent perfume of an achingly fertile body begging for seed. Whatever control over himself Francis had been maintaining to this point evaporated, and he crawled between Arthur’s legs, his tongue trailing upward from Arthur’s knee all the way to his nipples, which Francis paused to give each a kiss (sending tingling shivers to the bottoms of Arthur’s feet) before continuing upward to at last seal his lips over Arthur’s. Every breath through Arthur’s lungs, stretching his tender chest, was hot and rough with the scent of musk, the Alpha pheromones responding to that of the Omega. _I need you!_ cried the Arthur’s body. _Here’s why!_ boasted Francis’s. Arthur felt tears rush to his eyes as Francis plunged his achingly hard cock inside. It hurt, but it was a bittersweet pain. It was scratching an itch until the skin broke, such sweet relief even when it became agonizing. Francis was not huge—not that Arthur had any reference, since the only penis he’d seen was his brother’s, and he suspected it had grown since Alistair was five—but he drove in as deeply as he could, and Arthur felt the desperate gyrations reverberate through his body, pounding to his core. It was not like the nights before, when Francis made love to him with a degree of playfulness, of casuality. This was serious, carnal. Both demanded from the other; Francis shoved and thrust and slammed, and Arthur bore it all, at times squeezing his eyes shut, at times clawing Francis’s back, at times screaming for more at the top of his lungs.

Arthur couldn’t tell if he reached a true peak or not, since the Heat could only be stopped by one thing—and as Francis gave his final, shaking lunge, his efforts paid off in a rush of flattening satisfaction. The king went limp atop his Omega, both of them gasping for breath and dripping onto the soaked sheets. Distantly, through the million other sensations, Arthur felt sharp little pains in his skin as it was stretched by his mate's swelling knot. It wasn’t as big as he thought it would be. _Smaller than a baby_ , he thought with a bit of fear. They said birthing was the worst pain possible, and this—this swollen Alpha inside him right now—was sealing his fate. He would get pregnant from this, without question. He would have Francis’s child, maybe more than one. Royal families didn’t need to be large, but the house certainly had enough room for a gaggle of children. Arthur wondered what would happen if he broke this connection between them, delayed the childbearing another month. It would be unspeakably disrespectful. He would be horribly punished, in ways he didn’t care to imagine. But he was curious. Was this even possible to escape from?

Experimentally, he shifted his hips just slightly to the left, as if to find a better position. Francis immediately made a sound of discomfort somewhere between a grunt and a growl. Arthur froze, heart shuddering. _Best not to test it anymore_ , he thought, and pushed his misgivings about pregnancy aside in favor of enjoying the weight and warmth of his mate lying over him.

Perhaps twenty minutes later, Francis’s body tightened, his fingers claws on the mattress as he braced himself. He gave a soft whine, almost inaudible, the most canine sound Arthur had heard out of him yet. And, at last, the knot released, and the only Heat inside Arthur was the warm, salty gift his French Alpha had left inside him.

Francis sighed in palpable relief, and shifted their positions so that he held Arthur to his chest. His smile was content, loving, and tired as if celebrating the end of a long day’s work. He said, “And now, _mon amour,_ you are mine.”

But this was not the only gift Francis gave him. Arthur had thought that, once his Heat had been soothed, Francis would leave and return to him only at night for the rest of the week (though the worst of the Heat was over, his body was still weak and his hormones still crazed). This was not the case at all. In fact, their only moments apart were when Francis fetched their trays of food. Thrice a day Francis left, and in between, they lay together in bed. When need be, Francis changed the sheets himself—an Alpha doing housework! Arthur was agape—and they lounged for endless hours, feeding each other the delicacies brought forth from the kitchen. Arthur’s favorites were the strawberries dipped in chocolate. He ate a few too many, and felt nauseous for a while, but Francis was accommodating, gently rubbing his back and chuckling. “Not so many, next time, _oui_?” and when Arthur shyly replied, “ _Oui_ ,” Francis laughed out loud and gave him a look so fond Arthur had to look away to keep from tearing up with joy.

“I suppose you never had this sort of food, growing up,” Francis remarked, brushing croissant crumbs from the corners of his mouth.

Arthur shook his head. “No, sir, I didn’t.” Francis was looking at him expectantly, but in an open, friendly way, and so Arthur continued, “Mostly we just had plain bread, from cornmeal or from wheat if you were rich, but people said they put chalk in it to make it look whiter. I don’t know, I never had wheat bread. Oh, we had vegetables, too, sometimes, but they didn’t really taste like anything because we ate them mashed.”

Francis raised his eyebrows in clear disbelief and distaste. “. . . Mashed.”

Arthur nodded. “Yes, where you squish them up with a—”

Francis held up a hand. “I beg you, spare me. I had no idea people in my kingdom abused their food in such terrible ways. I should make mashed foods illegal, unless you’re a baby or someone without teeth.”

Arthur stared at him, and Francis’s serious expression melted into a smile. “I am joking, _mon amour._ You do not need to be so afraid. Haven’t you figured out that I don’t want to hurt you?” And he cupped Arthur’s face in his hands and gave him the softest chaste kiss. From someone like Francis, it was astonishing.

And from there, they proceeded to—chat. They talked about life in the village compared to life in the city, about their parents (dead, the whole quartet), about having siblings (as an only child, Francis had no one to compare to Alistair aside from Antonio, but Arthur assured him that their similarities were few and far between). Francis told Arthur the details of the wedding ceremony Antonio had neglected to mention, easing Arthur’s anxiety about the upcoming event. Arthur told Francis about his dreams to have a family, a real family, not the travesty of the Kirkland home. Francis told Arthur about his fears as High Alpha. They cuddled and laughed and kissed and made love, and they shared food and wine and words, and they shocked each other with the mutual serendipity that they were both . . . people. Alpha—indeed, High Alpha—and Omega, yes, and French and English, yes, but beneath all that, they were but men. They realized it at the same time their hearts did, and both fell silent, smiling at each other, hearing the violins of their heartstrings harmonizing.

Arthur thought, _Perhaps things can really change. Perhaps every Alpha has kindness hidden inside, and you need only dig to find it. Perhaps this mated life won’t be terrible at all. Perhaps Lovino’s hatred of Alphas is misplaced. Perhaps . . ._

But the thought was dropped, because Francis had kissed him again, and Arthur could do nothing but kiss him back and savor the exhilaration that came with it, for he was in love, and no drug gave a stronger high than a loved one’s lips.

 

. . .

 

“Unca Gil! _Regarder!_ ”

Gilbert ducked his head a little, rolling his eyes back and trying to see where Matthew was pointing. The little Omega was seated in his usual place when in Gilbert’s presence—on the Alpha’s shoulders—and his tiny finger was aimed at a pair of butterflies dancing through the air together. Gilbert knew they were either going to mate or they’d already mated or both, but he admired the blissful ignorance of the nestling, who must have thought they were just friends, or brothers, or maybe in love, but certainly not random insects coming together for the sole purpose of procreation.

 _Not like your father_ , Gilbert thought, vaguely amused. He’d heard the cries from Francis’s bedroom when he went into the castle to get Matthew, Arthur begging Francis for _more! More! More!_ The servants had looked rather tortured as they cleaned round the place, forced by proximity to listen; Gilbert had never seen them with that much expression on their faces before. He could have punished them for it, but he was in a good mood today. He’d been quite happy the past week, actually; now that Lovino was out of the house, his dinners with Ludwig and Feliciano had the domestic, cozy quality of a pleasant family get-together. It was the sort of feeling Gilbert would’ve liked to curl up next to, as if it were the warm glow off a fireplace.

Not that he’d ever _admit_ that, of course. That was something for Omegas and pups. He had a reputation to uphold, and it wasn’t that of a cuddly puppy. The only shows of affection he performed in public were the arm-punches and shoulder-nudges of friendship for Ludwig or Antonio (Francis was considered too frilly for that sort of thing), and . . . well, Matthew was an exception to the rule in himself.

“Butterflies,” Gilbert told Matthew. “Can you say that?”

“ _Papillons_ ,” replied the boy eagerly, curling his fingers through Gilbert’s ashen hair.

Gilbert chuckled. The Omega had some wit, he had to give him that. Such a shame Matthew wasn’t an Alpha. Then they wouldn’t have to deal with all this royal mate business, and Francis wouldn’t be monthly distracted by Heats like Ludwig was, like so many Alphas were. Antonio too, now. Everyone was pairing up, it felt like they were only pups yesterday. Gilbert didn’t see the appeal of claiming an Omega. Sex could be had at a brothel, servants did what few chores he didn’t do himself, and as for love—well, like Francis said, family and friends were always better than mates.

Just a shame that Matthew couldn’t grow up close to Gilbert forever. Once he was old enough to start his training, the only interaction between them would be Matthew serving Gilbert, if that. If the boy was an Alpha, they could hunt together, Gilbert could spar with him, and hopefully he would live long enough to protect him as he protected Francis.

“Butterfly,” Matthew echoed in his squeaky voice. He tugged gently on one of Gilbert’s ears, making it flap as though it were a butterfly wing.

“Alright, enough of that.” Gilbert lifted Matthew up and set him back down again, this time on the carpet of moss Gilbert was lying on. They were in the birch grove where Francis had helped Matthew learn to fly, a place Francis had taken Gilbert on more than one occasion, but never during the day. There was a time when nearly every night held a moonlit hunt, Gilbert and Francis chasing each other through the fields outside the city. As far as Gilbert knew, it was a secret kept from Antonio. Not for any particular reason; it was just something that belonged to them and no one else. They hadn’t gone out since Matthew was born, of course. One night Gilbert had gone out and spent the entire night by himself, but it wasn’t the same. He’d been tempted to tip his muzzle back and let out a howl, so the moon would know just how lonely he was, but then everyone in the kingdom would have heard. That was worse, somehow. Being surrounded by people, and still alone.

Matthew was in his usual pink dress. It probably had some technical name, but to Gilbert, it was a dress. Clothes didn’t matter to him in the slightest. The human form had advantages, but if he could, he would spend all his time as a wolf. He could run faster, bite harder, track farther, hear better. When he felt the strength of his canine form, he knew without a doubt that they had been created to protect Omegas. How weak must they feel? What about Matthew here? He was an Omega, and a _child._ So defenseless.

Gilbert chucked the boy under his soft chin. “You trust me, don’t you, Neffe?”

Matthew nodded, his little pink mouth curved in a smile, his violet eyes lit with uncomplicated adoration. “Unca Gil.”

Gilbert let a smile curl one side of his mouth, a far cry from the usual smirks he showed when people were around; those were sharp enough to cut you, but this was not even close. With a slight twitch of his shoulders and a silver ripple, Gilbert shifted to his wolf form. He crouched down, his belly pressed to the ground, his chin between his forepaws. Matthew knew what this meant, and clambered up onto the Alpha’s back. The grey wolf gave no sign of vexation, not even when the toddler gripped his fur tight enough to hurt. Gilbert rose carefully, so as not to tip Matthew, and began to pad around the birch-lined perimeter of the meadow. It was not an exciting pace or a thrilling environment, but Matthew squealed in delight nevertheless, and the sound had the wolf’s tail wagging.

When they reached a cluster of purple flowers, none of them as beautiful as the child’s eyes, Matthew’s grip suddenly vanished. Without looking, Gilbert knew he was reaching for the flowers, and in the second before Matthew crashed facefirst to the ground, Gilbert rolled over, and the pair wound up sprawled in the grass and flowers, the wolf on his back, Matthew lying over his white-furred stomach. The Omega found it a hilarious turn of events, his giggles only rising in pitch as Gilbert gently shifted to his flank and began to lick his chubby cheeks.

“Gil!” Matthew put his little hands on Gilbert’s muzzle, pushing up his lips to see the yellowed fangs hidden beneath. Some were bigger than his fingers, but he poked at them, fearless. “Silly.”

Gilbert knew he was spoiling Matthew even worse than Francis was. He knew this wasn’t the right thing to do. He knew that if every Omega was treated this way, nothing would ever get done, and Alphas would become slaves to the very people who were meant to serve them. But, for reasons unknown to him, he just couldn’t resist.

 _I won’t do it forever. I can’t, even if I wanted to. Once Matthew grows up, he won’t even dream of acting like this around an Alpha, especially not one like me. He’ll never be able to look me in the eye again._ A tiny bit of sadness crept into his heart. _He’ll never call me Uncle Gil again._

But that was the way it was supposed to be. That was the Natural way. And if they abandoned that, they would have nothing.

So, on the inside, he felt appropriately guilty for letting Matthew crawl between his forelegs and snuggle up into the thick fur of his ruff. But, on the outside, his red eyes sparkled fondly and he rested his chin atop the boy’s pale golden curls, ears pricked and swiveling for danger, the tip of his tail still twitching back and forth with the memory of wagging. _I will keep you safe,_ he thought, _until you’re taken away from me._ Matthew yawned softly and settled against Gilbert’s chest, already drifting into a warm nap. _But, for now, sleep._ He let his eyelids droop, allowing himself only the slight doze of a guardian, still alert and ready at any time to jump up, to fight, to protect another life with his own. And, oblivious to it all, the Omega wrinkled his nose, tickled by the silvery fur. He gave a tiny sneeze— _choo!_ —and settled back into slumber. Something like love blazed in Gilbert’s heart.

_Sweet dreams, Matthew._


	13. Chapter 13

“Give not yourself to another

If they are of the Alpha breed.

The wolf is a beast of burden

Used for toil, guard, and seed.”

_—popular rhyme of Eastern Eurasia_

 

From the moment Francis opened his eyes on his wedding day, it was complete chaos. As a king—and a French one, at that—he resented anything that could be described as _rushing_. What was more important than him? Nothing. So why was he being ushered around his own castle as though some superior force had taken control of his life?

Everything was a blur punctuated by Antonio’s voice as he made last-minute suggestions and alterations. He bathed, more servants than he could count dressed him in an exquisite costume, he dined—no, he did not dine, but he wanted to dine.

“There’s no time for that,” Antonio said absently, then turned to speak to a pair of servants in such rapid Spanish that Francis could almost feel the the words spinning around his head. Antonio turned back to Francis, and his brow furrowed as he leaned closer. “Are you . . . drunk?”

“Absolutely not,” Francis replied, enunciating quite well, in his opinion.

Antonio’s eyes widened in exasperation, and he pulled Francis to a corner of the grand hall, away from the endless flow of comers and goers. His grasp on Francis’s arm was delicate; he couldn’t wrinkle his cape. “How can you be drunk? When did you drink?”

Francis struggled to recall. “I don’t know the _exact_ time. I wasn’t really interested, to be perfectly honest. It was in the middle of the night, anyway. Don’t worry,” he added, patting his friend’s shoulder. “I remember all my lines. I just wanted to, you know, avoid getting too excited.”

Antonio’s gaze softened with understanding. “You didn’t want to lose your breath again.”

Francis had no trouble remembering the panic attack he’d suffered before his official inheritance of the crown. “ _Oui_ ,” he said, overly chipper to avoid sounding grim. “But it is alright now. Everything is working out, isn’t it?”

Antonio glanced at the milling servants, all with their arms full of decorations, food, favors. All of this was his doing, even if no one realized it. “Yes, it’s going according to plan.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You know, we wouldn’t have had to rush if you’d woken up before noon,” he pointed out as harmlessly as he could.

Francis laughed, then laughed some more at the idea of waking at a respectable time. “Where are the Omegas? I have not seen Arthur yet today.”

“You aren’t supposed to,” Antonio replied. “It’s bad luck, or so some say.”

Francis scoffed. “Bad luck? I’ve had enough bad luck for one man. I do not think I will have anymore.”

Antonio looked dubious, but he only replied, “Arthur should be finishing up with dressing now. Lovino and Feliciano are at the tailor’s with him.” He exchanged some more Spanish with a servant, then smiled at Francis. It seemed a little forced, but that was probably because of all his distractions. “It’s time we made our way to the square. The good people are waiting.”

Despite the wine in his veins, Francis’s stomach still felt like he’d just boarded a rocking boat. He wasn’t worried about facing his subjects—he loved doing that, and he couldn’t deny them the pleasure of viewing their gorgeous High Alpha—but the ceremony part made him nervous. He’d been so certain of it, the first time. But those declarations of love had proven to be empty, and he’d hardly gotten over the reality of that before the woman died. (The only saving grace, of course, was little Matthew.) To him, love was something to give, to spread as much as possible, but never to fake.

Through the swarm of anxiety and the haze of alcohol, he remembered the past couple weeks he had shared with Arthur Kirkland. Their nights of cuddles and chatter, of talking—truly _talking_. And—Francis felt a smile tug on his lips—they’d actually bickered a little, in Arthur’s moments of courage. It wasn’t anything serious, but it still could have been punished. Francis would have punished it, if it resembled the blatant disrespect that Lovino gave Antonio. But it was more like a companionable bickering, like something he’d have with Toni. It was . . . nice.

 _Arthur is different_ , he told himself. _Arthur isn’t like any Omega I’ve ever met. But he’s mine. This will be different than before, I know it will._

“Francis?” Antonio asked, looking over his shoulder.

The French Alpha nodded. “Yes, let’s go. Hopefully our Omegas won’t be much longer. . . .”

 

. . .

 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, for the third time in as many minutes. The Alpha tailor knelt before him had his mouth full of pins, and he didn’t spare Arthur a glance. He’d very nearly stuck Arthur twice now, so the English Omega didn’t add a _sir_ to his apology. Not that it was very heartfelt to begin with. He was more annoyed than the tailor.

Feliciano and Lovino watched a few feet away, like opposites attracted. Lovino, as always, was a dark storm cloud, and his gown reflected that in a dark oxblood. To contrast, Feliciano was a fluffy cloud, and his dress was much looser, less severe, the pale pink of a sunrise.

And Arthur, of course, was in a huge white monstrosity. It barely even looked like a dress, to him; it was covered in dangling tassels and jewels he hoped weren’t actually diamonds but was too afraid to ask. His hair had been done as much as hair of that length could, parted at the side for once and swept across his forehead to curl elegantly at his temple. His cheeks had been rouged, but only barely, just a hint of blush—which was rendered redundant, now, because he’d been blushing for the past ten minutes as the tailor struggled to make the silky material of the dress accommodate Arthur’s body.

“Maybe you should try holding your breath,” Feliciano suggested. He looked even more adorable than usual today. Ludwig would be watching very intently from the crowd when they made their way down the aisle. _And so will everyone else_ , Arthur thought, adding a trickle of dread to the ocean he’d been accumulating.

“He can’t breathe in, that’ll just make it worse,” Lovino said, crossing his arms over his chest and curling his lip at the lace that tickled his arms when he did. Despite his hatred of the dress, he looked beautiful in it. It showed just enough of his figure to tantalize without giving everything away. Antonio would enjoy the wedding, too.

“I don’t know how I put on this much weight so fast,” Arthur said, because the awkwardness of it demanded something be said.

“I do,” Lovino remarked. “You’ve been eating double what you used to at lunch.”

And at dinner and breakfast, and throughout the day. Arthur found himself craving the strangest things, and he found himself losing any inhibitions he may once have had about food. Cold, old, leftover, when he was craving, he couldn’t care less.

“Well,” Arthur said, trying not to sound overly giddy about it, “I am eating for two.”

Feliciano clapped his hands gleefully. “Oh, that’s wonderful! I thought you must be, you look so brighter than before, and everyone knows an Omega glows when they’re pregnant! But, oh! If you’re showing signs so early, that means you’re going to have an Alpha!”

Arthur had hoped Lovino would look at least a little happy at the news—not that it was hard to figure out—but the darker Italian just turned his gaze away grumpily. “That’s just an old saying. It’s not always true.”

Arthur hoped it was true in his case. He was delighted to be carrying his mate’s child, yes, but he suspected a lot of that was an instinctive happiness. An Omega’s built-in motherly inclination. If he let himself consider the pain of the delivery, he was more afraid of that than of the wedding. _I could die_ , he thought, _if something goes wrong. I could bleed to death, or get weaker and weaker, like Francis’s first mate._ Francis had told him about that a few nights ago, at Arthur’s request. He’d begun to ask more questions, and he still couldn’t quite get over the joy of Francis answering every time. The man he went to bed with was so different than the one he presented to others. Arthur wished they could do away with the Alpha who walked with his nose in the air, and instead have the man whose laugh—his real one, not that practised nasal thing he thought made him sound more regal—made Arthur’s heart feel like the sun had gotten caught in the cage of his ribs.

 _I hope it’s an Alpha_ , he thought. _Then I won’t have to have anymore children._

“Ouch!” Arthur yelped, and looked down with undisguised anger at the tailor, who had, “Stuck me like a pig!”

The Alpha rose to his full height, nearly a foot taller than the bride, his dark eyes narrowed furiously. Arthur realized in shock that the man had lifted one of his hands. Was he going to strike him? On his _wedding day_?

Then Arthur was forced backward, Lovino pushing between them and spitting, “If you do that, the king will have you strung up by your tail. You know I’m right, so stop this . . . behavior, before you embarrass both of us.”

He glared down at Lovino, frustrated by the logic in his words. He couldn’t harm any of these Omegas. They were nearly late as it was, and if he disturbed their hair or dresses, he would be the cause of a delay, even if the Omegas had been unruly. And on this day of all days, it was quite possible Francis might string someone up for hitting his mate. So the tailor gathered up his supplies with jerky movements and snapped, “That’s the best anyone can do for you, Omega. You’re too fat.”

Arthur didn’t appreciate that remark very much, but he’d pressed his luck enough for one afternoon. He waited until the tailor had stormed into the back room before saying, “Perhaps I’m a bit podgy, but—”

Lovino pulled the dress flat against Arthur’s torso, showing how his flesh strained at the silk. “No, I think you’re fat.” He regarded the Englishman with an amused smirk. “But it’s an improvement. Before, you were too damn skinny. Now you at least look alive.”

Arthur whirled free of Lovino’s grasp, enjoying the flow of the gown around his legs, even if the thing weighed ten pounds more than it needed to. He didn’t bother fighting a smile as he said, “But you’re skinny, too! You could pass for a corpse if you wanted to.”

Lovino nodded, deadpan. “Yes. That’s because I’m dead.”

Arthur raised a thick eyebrow.

“Inside,” Lovino clarified.

Arthur nudged the Italian's shoulder with his own as they dissolved into laughter. Lovino had a percussive laugh, almost hard, the sort of laugh that caused others passing in the street glance over, certain they were being made the butt of a joke.

Feliciano fluttered near the door of the tailor shop, buzzing with excitement. “It’s time! Let’s go!”

Arthur glanced behind him. “Uh oh . . .” He’d tangled up his train when he twirled. When he tried to crouch down and fix it, he rolled his ankle and would have ripped the dress falling to his knees, if not for Lovino catching him.

“Who the hell,” the Italian demanded, “thought you of all people should wear heels?”

Arthur blinked back tears at the pain in his ankle. The last thing he needed, on top of this, was to smudge his rouge.

Feliciano gasped and hurried over to untwist the train. “Are you really hurt? Can you walk? Do we have to cancel the wedding? Oh, no!”

“I can walk,” Arthur replied hastily, even though he didn’t know if he could or not at the moment. He didn’t want the younger man to freak out.

“Relax,” Lovino snapped. He helped Arthur stand, then crouched down. “Pick up your foot.”

Arthur obeyed, his arms flying outward at his sides to steady himself. “What are you going to do, wrap it? I don’t know if that will help . . .”

“We don’t have time for that.” Lovino reached under the swaying mass of Arthur’s dress, took off his shoe, and tossed it away with an almost admirable lack of care. “Other foot.” Arthur winced when his bad ankle took all his weight, but it wasn’t the worst pain he’d ever endured. Lovino discarded the other shoe and stood up. “There. What’s the point of wearing those anyway, no one can see them.”

“They made me taller,” Arthur muttered as he hobbled to the door with Feliciano in tow. Barefoot, he was a couple inches shorter than Lovino. “What if I tread on a pebble?”

Lovino opened the door and snorted. “Little chance of that, Your Highness.”

For a velvet carpet had been unrolled from the tailor shop, down two streets, and into the square, where the High Alpha of Western Eurasia waited to profess his undying love for the second time of his life.

 

. . .

 

“Papa!”

“Hey! Get back here, you.” Gilbert leant forward to grab Matthew before the little Omega could waddle away from their seats. Francis, standing with Antonio under an arbor painted white and weaved with roses, glanced over and smiled at his son.

“Getting restless?” Ludwig asked. He was seated beside Gilbert in the front row; they had the last seats in their row and were the closest to the aisle. Gilbert had heard Antonio explaining the thought that had gone into where everyone would be seated and who would be allowed to even have a chair, who would have to watch from afar. There were people packed into the alleys between the shops of the square, Omegas perched in bird form on all the surrounding roofs, and Gilbert had a few wolves posted at corners of buildings, prowling in the spaces behind them. This was a joyous occasion for most, but for the guards, it was an opportunity for a potential assassination, and they weren’t about to let that happen.

He would’ve liked to be patrolling with his men, but Francis wanted his other best friend to see him get married yet again, so here he was stuffed into a morning coat, sitting pretty with the capital’s flock of dandies.

“Me or Matthew?” Gilbert asked, adjusting the boy’s position on his lap and gently bouncing his knee to make the child giggle.

Ludwig watched in amusement. “Both.”

The guard captain shrugged. “I’d rather be working than sitting around, same as you.” Ludwig didn’t look too bothered to be here—even with his waistcoat lamenting the amount of muscular torso it had to cover—and Gilbert suspected he knew why. “But you’re probably imagining having one of these with Feliciano.”

His younger brother crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders stretching the seams of the coat. He’d worn this to Francis’s first wedding; if the frog got hitched again, they’d have to invest in a new outfit for the bigger Beilschmidt brother. “I’m happy just to be his mate. I don’t need a big ceremony like this.”

“Hm.” Gilbert didn’t see the appeal of mates, but he couldn’t blame Ludwig for being happy with the Italian. Truth be told, Gilbert was happy with him, too. He was always doing little thoughtful things for the brothers, without being asked. _Here, Gilbert, I put some cookies in your bag in case you got hungry at your post!_ He was just so damn nice, it was impossible to find fault in him.

 _If Lovino was the same way_ , Gilbert let himself think, _I probably would have ended up mating him._

Suddenly someone cried, “Here they come!”

A hush fell over the gathered citizens, everyone turning in their chairs to watch the procession. It was a mite lackluster without music, but there was only one person who could have played the piano in a manner exquisite enough for the wedding of royalty, and he was long-gone. Dead, hopefully, Gilbert thought. Along with his mate. Eliza.

“Gil?” Matthew was looking up at him in concern. “ _Ca va_?”

Ludwig’s blue eyes found him, the only eyes that could challenge Gilbert’s. They held the same question Matthew’s did. _You alright?_

Gilbert forced a small smile, just enough to look presentable. No one was looking at him, but he didn’t need to be glaring murderously at his friend’s wedding. “Fine,” he whispered, tapping Matthew’s nose with a fingertip. “Now shush.”

Arthur and Lovino walked arm-in-arm, and, though he was trying to hide it, Gilbert could tell the bride was limping. Francis said he was a clumsy one. Lovino was bright red under the gazes of so many people, but he kept his own gaze lowered, as was proper. Arthur didn’t look away from Francis, and when Gilbert looked over at his friend, he saw that the royal couple both had a combination of fear, anticipation, and love in their eyes.

 _Everyone’s falling in love, like it’s so easy._ He just couldn’t understand it. But he had to admit that watching Arthur and Francis clasp hands and say their vows was sort of . . . sweet. In a gross kind of way.

“I will love you always,” Francis said, and Gilbert was surprised by how quiet it was. The people a few rows back wouldn’t be able to hear. It was something just for his loved ones. For Antonio and Gilbert, Ludwig and Feliciano, but most of all, for Arthur.

_He didn’t need all of this pomp and circumstance. He should have done this in private, in the castle. That would have been more romantic._

_God above, listen to me, this damn wedding is turning me into an Omega._

Francis slipped a ring—gold with an emerald for Arthur and two sapphires for Francis and Matthew—onto his bride’s slender finger, then cupped his face and kissed him. Arthur swooned, arms wrapped around the king’s shoulders, and their kiss deepened. And continued.

“Save it for after the hunt,” Gilbert called, holding a hand over Matthew’s eyes. Most of the audience laughed, and Ludwig rolled his eyes.

Francis finally pulled away from Arthur, arm around his waist, and grinned at his gathered subjects. Antonio prompted the applause, and Francis started like he’d forgotten the Spaniard was there; then he threw his other arm around him and squeezed his blushing mate and friend to his sides.

“Is he drunk?” Ludwig asked, under the bustling of people headed to start celebrating the marriage.

“Well, if he ain’t,” Gilbert said, hoisting a squealing Matthew onto his shoulders, “he’s about to be.”


	14. Chapter 14

“For an Alpha to lose control over himself

while an Omega is in Heat

is a shame, but at least understandable.

For an Alpha to force himself

on an Omega in normal states

is a disgrace, and completely unacceptable.”

_—dictum of the Court of Jarls_

 

Lovino couldn’t track it: one moment, everyone was seated and orderly, applauding for the king’s new love . . . and the next moment, the city sensibility was tossed aside for less sophisticated pursuits. Lovino was caught among the moving crowd like the overpowering current of a river. The streets widened the closer they were to the square, and this web of boulevards was lined with stalls, tables, any platform onto which someone laid out something for someone else to buy. The sights and sounds! Lovino, who was accustomed to the capital’s general volume and vanity, was genuinely taken aback. Arthur, a few paces ahead, looked like his eyes might pop out of his skull.

It was impossible to stay centered among all this, so Lovino did something he did not often do. He let himself go with the flow. He let Feliciano twine their fingers and tug him around to all the carts, pointing out beautiful hats, shoes, jewels. “Oh, Ludwig!” Feliciano cried, holding up a necklace with an amber pendant the precise shade of the Italian’s eyes. “Look how beautiful it is!”

Ludwig smiled. Lovino had never seen him wear such an easy expression of happiness. Maybe the big potato bastard wasn’t immune to the romantic air of the wedding. _He isn’t so ugly when he smiles_ , Lovino thought grudgingly. _Damn it_.

“Do you want that necklace, Feli?” Ludwig asked.

Feliciano gasped. “Oh, could I? I would love to have it!”

“Don’t spoil him,” said a voice directly behind Lovino. He spun around to see Gilbert smirking down at him, Matthew Bonnefoy on his shoulders. The toddler’s legs looked so tiny in the German’s big hands. A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Did I scare you, Omega?”

Lovino looked away. He didn’t feel like talking to Gilbert, now or ever. He was surprised the captain was following them, but when he glanced up, he saw Arthur, Francis, and Antonio were here as well. _What a strange cluster we are_ , he thought. _And just think, if we were all Alphas, we’d be the best of friends._

“One necklace isn’t spoiling,” Francis said, slurring through the S’s. _God, is he drunk already? He probably woke up like that._ Lovino suspected the High Alpha bathed in wine each morning. Why else would he smell like that?

Ludwig gave the jeweller the money for the necklace, and watched Feliciano hop joyfully in a circle before helping him put the necklace on. “Oh, thank you, Ludwig!” Feliciano hugged him tight, looking like a nestling up against the huge guard. Of course, they had to kiss as well as embrace, and Lovino looked away. _Gag me._ He would have rolled his eyes at Arthur, if they weren’t trapped in this gaggle of Alphas.

Not to be outdone, Francis bought Arthur three necklaces of different lengths and colors, then a bracelet for each wrist, and finally a tiny necklace with a pink stone pendant—Lovino had no idea what it was—in a crude approximation of a heart shape for Matthew.

“Brilliant idea there,” Gilbert remarked, when Matthew immediately hung the necklace from one of the German’s ears. He maneuvered Matthew around, into his arms. While the boy squirmed upward to reach for the dangling jewelry, Gilbert said, “I think it’s about time we found a bottle to empty.”

“I think so, too,” Antonio agreed, the first thing Lovino had heard him say that day. The Spaniard had been gone when Lovino awoke that morning; he already looked weary from all the work he’d been doing. Despite himself, Lovino felt a tiny bit of sympathy his mate. Did anyone appreciate all the stress he’d been through for these celebrations, and training the Omegas on top of that? The king certainly didn’t. He hadn’t worried a glossy hair on his imperial head about this day. Lovino was certain other Alphas could have been hired to do everything Antonio had done. Why hadn’t they been? _Because no one cares about it as much as he does._

Lovino hated the tomato bastard, but he had to give it to him: he was a dedicated fleabag.

The High Alpha was nodding. “ _Oui_ , I wouldn’t mind a drink.” He framed Arthur’s face with his hands, smiling. “I will find you in a few hours, _mon amour._ You will watch Mathieu for me.”

Gilbert seemed a bit reluctant as he passed Matthew over to Arthur, who held him pleasantly enough, but the toddler immediately began to fuss. The sound had nearby Omegas looking over in concern, and Arthur nervously patted his back. “Shh, it’s okay, they’re not leaving forever . . .”

“That’s not why he’s crying.” Gilbert took the little necklace off his ear and offered it to Matthew. Unlike most Omegas—and some Alphas—he didn’t coo for babies, and watching him address the child like an adult was almost enough to make Lovino smile. Almost. “This is what you want, right? You don’t miss the Alpha, just the presents. The little Omega is growing up so fast, Francis.”

But he was looking at Lovino when he said it. Lovino remembered the feeling of that big hand at the back of his head, dragging him by his hair out to a beating in the street. That street wasn’t very far from the one they stood on right now. Seeing that hand so close to a toddler made misgiving twist Lovino’s guts.

Matthew took the necklace, instantly happy again, and Gilbert snorted, ruffling his hair. “See you later, birdies. Coming, Ludwig?”

The taller German shook his head. “I’ll stay with the Omegas for now.”

Gilbert almost protested, but shrugged it off. “Whatever you say.” He strode away, with Antonio and Francis—once he had given a kiss to his mate and son—following. Lovino watched his mate go in confusion. There were no lingering looks today, no frustration, no quiet moments of longing for Lovino to be a good Omega. In fact, he was mostly just ignoring Lovino. Something must have been bothering him. The stress of the wedding?

Lovino was less than thrilled to have an Alpha chaperoning them, but luckily Ludwig was constantly distracted by Feliciano, so he was easy for Lovino and Arthur to ignore. The little group walked down one street, then another. Endless merchants, bakers, weavers, craftsmen. Arthur got a bag of maple candies for Matthew (he had no money, but the vendor said it was free and even bid Arthur a happy future, which left the Englishman speechless). Ludwig bought each of them a pastry (“A danish? But I thought they were in the North.” Ludwig quelled the confusion with a wise, “Best not to think about it, Feli.”) and a cup of cider to wash it down. Lovino found himself letting go more and more; he even said _Thank you_ to Ludwig in a borderline friendly way. He’d expected mockery, but the blond Alpha just gave a light smile and walked on. A trio of Alpha pups, one brown and two grey, capered by with their wagging tails a blur. Across the street, two Alphas harmonized with gleeful fiddles, drawing a small crowd of dancers—mostly Omegas—who hopped about with their arms linked and their mouths stretched wide in grins. Happy Omegas! Finally, something to celebrate.

Beside him, Arthur breathed in and out deeply, eyes closed. His blissful expression was perfectly mirrored by Matthew, who had just begun to suck on his second maple candy.

Lovino raised an eyebrow slightly, but didn’t interrupt.

Arthur opened his eyes and smiled, lifting Matthew higher on his hip. “It feels like home.”

Lovino blinked, incredulous. “ _This_ feels like your village?”

“No, it feels like home. Two different things. I never felt at home there. Mostly because of my brother.”

This was news. “You have a brother? What’s he like?”

But Arthur wasn’t looking at him anymore. Distantly, he said, “My brother . . .”

Faint disappointment made Lovino sigh. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to—”

He broke off at a thickly accented shout a few streets over, in the square, it sounded like. Arthur’s face brightened. “I thought I heard him!”

“Uh, who?”

“My brother! He came to my wedding!” Arthur hobbled as quickly as he could toward the square.

“Brother?” Feliciano echoed, breaking off from whatever he was rambling about to Ludwig. The Italian was always attentive to any mention of male siblings.

“Arthur’s brother is in the square,” Lovino told him.

“Oh! That’s great!” Feliciano cried, frolicking after Arthur.

Lovino was pretty sure he and Ludwig had the same thought— _is it great?_ —before they headed toward the indecipherable bellowing in the square.

 

. . .

 

Ludwig had never seen anyone as roaring drunk as the red-haired man who stood in the center of the square. They’d moved away the arbor and the chairs and brought in casks of alcohol, which had naturally led to bouts of street fighting. The red-haired Alpha—Ludwig recognized him from the day of the line-up, bringing Arthur to see the king—had bloody knuckles, and more than a few members of the crowd sported split lips, swelling eyes, bleeding noses. Ludwig approached one of the guardsmen he regularly patrolled with. “Why are you only watching this? It’s illegal. They should all spend the night in a gaol cell.”

The other guardsmen shrugged, arms crossed over his chest. “I was going to, but the Captain said to let him be.”

 _Oh, Gilbert._ “Did you see where he went?”

“Pretty hard not to notice him.” The guard nodded toward the center of the square, where Gilbert was approaching the still-shouting Scot.

 _“That's_ your brother?” Feliciano asked, eyes bulging.

“Yep,” Arthur replied, rather flat. He didn’t seem so excited to reunite with him now. Ludwig couldn’t blame him for that, nor could he blame his mate for sounding shocked. There was very little resemblance between the Alpha and the Omega, aside from their thick eyebrows.

In the center of the square, Gilbert said, loudly, “Alright, _laddie_ , enough screaming at people. That’s my job, and I do it better. People can actually understand what I’m saying half the time.”

There were some drunken cheers from the crowd for this. The liquor vendors had certainly made their money today. Across the circle of gathered Alphas, Ludwig could see Francis and Antonio, slumped against each other and watching in amusement. Gilbert wasn’t drunk—he needed to be alert while Francis and Matthew were out in public—but his friends probably couldn’t walk a straight line without assistance.

Arthur’s brother—Alistair, Ludwig heard the Omega tell Feliciano—turned to face the captain of the guard. Ludwig wasn’t sure, but he thought he said, “You wanna fuckin’ go with me? I’ll lay you down in a second!”

The crowd didn’t cheer now. Low, worried _oooohh_ sounds swept around the ring of watchers. Arthur and Feliciano had a hand over their mouths. But, of course, Alistair didn’t recognize Gilbert. He wasn’t in uniform, and Alistair probably couldn’t see clearly enough to recall Gilbert’s more memorable features.

Ludwig watched his brother’s pale eyebrows lift toward his hair, a look of exaggerated shock. Then Gilbert’s crimson eyes narrowed and a smirk cut into his face. Feliciano trembled and pressed closer to Ludwig; he put a comforting arm around his mate. Even though he trusted his brother with his life, the life of their leader, and the lives of their loved ones . . . that face made the hairs rise at the back of his neck. Something about the bright hunger in his eyes, the sharp edges of his teeth. Even in human form, he was an animal.

“You’ll lay me down?” Gilbert asked, sounding genuinely curious. “Okay. Let’s see you do it.”

Alistair looked around him, seeking support from the crowd. The majority of the people weren’t daft enough to encourage a crime, but the drunkest few gave half-hearted cheers. That was enough to motivate the Scot, who lunged at Gilbert. In a fluid movement, the captain slipped out of the way, into his wolf form, and leapt onto Alistair’s back, flattening the man to the ground. It was over as swiftly as that—Gilbert only had to sink his fangs into the man’s neck, and he would be dead. A fate perhaps not deserved, but in the eyes of the law, he had attacked a Royal Guard. An unarmed Royal Guard. That, on top of multiple counts of brawling, was cause for execution.

“No!” Before anyone could stop him, Arthur hurried out into the square, Matthew still clutched to his chest, eyes wide with horror. “Don’t kill him! Please!”

Gilbert lifted his head, fangs bared at the Omega—until he saw Matthew. If Arthur had not been holding the king’s son, if there was no crowd, if it was just between Arthur and Gilbert, who could have said what would’ve happened. But, seeing Matthew, Gilbert’s ears flattened and, after snarling savagely into Alistair’s face, he stepped off and rose into his human form. “Men!”

Four guardsmen stepped out hastily, stiff-backed, awaiting orders. Ludwig almost joined them, but he wasn’t armed, nor was he technically on duty right now. Besides, if he was honest, he didn’t trust all these drunks. A wrong step could start a fight, and he didn’t want anyone to hurt Feliciano.

Gilbert brushed off the front of his coat, glaring at Arthur. To the guards, he said, “Haul everyone stupid enough to fight down to gaol.” Then he cast his glare around at the crowd. “Get lost. There’s nothing to gawk at anymore. Go back to spending money.” With that, he stalked off to join Francis and Antonio.

The guards bound the arms of the men who struggled—Alistair included—and took them away. It would have been quicker to take them to the castle’s dungeon, but that was reserved for serious offenders, and could only be ordered on someone by the king. (It was essentially his basement, after all.)

Arthur was shaking as he returned to Ludwig and the Italians. Feliciano took Matthew from him, and Lovino embraced him—a gesture that astonished Ludwig—and whispered something in his ear. Ludwig didn’t exactly catch it, but it sounded to him like _where it really starts._

And though neither Ludwig nor Gilbert or any of the watching citizens put it in these terms, the reality of it was this: Gilbert Beilschmidt, captain of the Royal Guard, had not administered punishment because an Omega had told him not to. Perhaps it was a fluke. Perhaps Gilbert had just had a brief forgiving streak. Perhaps it was not a big deal. Or, perhaps, Lovino Vargas was right.

It had really started.

 

. . .

 

That night, after Arthur apologized on his brother’s behalf to a wine-muddled Francis, after Ludwig and Feliciano curled into each other under the sheets, after Alistair had passed out on the straw of his prison cell, after Gilbert had gone out for the first time in a long time to spend the night alone with the moon, Lovino lay in bed alone.

Antonio had never been this late coming to bed before. Lovino knew he should’ve been glad about it, but he felt sort of lonely in this big bed by himself. He’d grown used to the warmth of the Spaniard lying next to him. Antonio was stronger than him, but still somehow safe. He wasn’t like Gilbert. _He’s like a pup,_ Lovino thought, picturing Antonio’s helpless face as he tried to sound scolding. _It’s kind of . . . cute_. Then he remembered the state he’d been in after the group had dined at the castle. Unsteady on his feet, he was so drunk he couldn’t even join the celebratory hunt most of the upper class Alphas had gone to. _Go home, Lovino. I’ll be there soon._ What if he’d gotten lost? What if he’d toppled down the castle steps? What if he’d broken his leg, his back, his neck? What if he was waiting for someone to find him, help him?

Lovino sat up in bed, looking at the darkness outside the window. He couldn’t go out at night by himself; an Omega needed an Alpha’s explicit permission to be outdoors after dark. It was dangerous at night for Omegas. They couldn’t see in the dark, but Alphas in wolf form could. What if one crept up, decided to take advantage? Thanks to the law, it was the Omega’s fault for being out alone after hours. If Lovino went out there, he would have no one to protect him.

But what if Antonio needs help? He couldn’t just let the tomato bastard die. He was awful, but he wasn’t terrible, damn it!

Lovino had just thrown the covers off when he heard the front door open and close with a bang that made his heart race. Seconds later, Antonio staggered into the room, a cloud of spirit fumes around him. Not just the reek of wine, like Francis; he’d drunk anything he could get his hands on today. _Why today? He’s never been like this before. I don’t get it._

Antonio wrestled off his clothing, but didn’t put on the usual loose trousers he wore to bed. Instead, he climbed naked on top of Lovino and began fumbling with Lovino’s shirt. He was mumbling in Spanish, his hands clumsy, and Lovino didn’t have the patience for it. He slapped Antonio’s hands away and rolled over quickly, turning his back to his mate. _He’s drunk, he’ll lose interest_ , he thought. _Probably doesn’t even know what he’s doing._

One second, the thought brought amusement. The next, it brought fear.

“Lovino,” Antonio said, voice closer to a growl than it had ever been. “Come here.” The very thing he’d said that first morning, before he made Lovino rub him. He would have gladly done it now than what he dreaded Antonio wanted from him, but he suspected it was too late.

As the Spaniard’s wet lips brushed the lobe of Lovino’s ear, his fear abruptly hardened to resolve. The fire inside him flared. _No. I will not do this. I don’t want it._ He rolled again, onto his stomach, his face buried in the pillow so it could not be kissed, his legs freed from Antonio’s blind grinding.

“Lovino.” A short snap, sounding like Gilbert. Like an Alpha. One last warning.

“No,” Lovino said, then said it again into the pillow, louder: “No!” And then he lifted his head and shouted in his mate’s face with all the fire and heartbreak inside him, “NO!”

He didn’t think anyone could hit so hard while lying down. He never knew that was possible.

His teeth cut into his lip, and blood pooled on his tongue as Antonio pinned him down into the mattress. The Alpha was all over him, he couldn’t fight the strength, the weight on his back. The growls in his hear. The animal in him. The beast tearing him apart.

“I’m the boss,” Antonio snarled with each unforgiving thrust, breaths hot on the side of Lovino’s face. “I’m the boss. Not you.”

Lovino bit into the pillow to keep from screaming. He would not give the satisfaction. The fire inside him roared hotter than ever before, threatening to devour his heart once and for all. He thought of his brother. Of Arthur. His friends. His family. His good, the only good he could find in this godforsaken kingdom.

After an eternity, Antonio groaned and rolled off of Lovino, and though there was plenty of disgusting stuff on Lovino’s thighs, he knew the Alpha hadn’t been able to finish. He’d started the day exhausted, and besides, how could any man hope to achieve anything with that much alcohol in his veins? Within moments, Antonio was fast asleep, and Lovino sat up, staring down at him through the shadows. Dead asleep. All it would take was a few minutes under a pillow.

 _I’ll be careful_ , he’d promised his brother.

Lovino’s hands fisted in the blankets. He had had enough.

But this was not the way to win this fight.

Omegas _would_ fight the Alphas, but they couldn’t do it head-on. They would never win that way, or they would have fought decades ago. Alphas were bigger and stronger, but that made them stupid. The Omegas had to be clever. And brave, above all else. Lovino remembered the fear Arthur had shown while facing Gilbert in the square. Fear in his eyes, but still he stood up for his brother, a brother he didn’t even like. The first time an Omega had refused an Alpha of his barbarism. And, in front of everyone, it had _worked._ It could happen. Omegas could be better than Alphas.

No more helplessness. No more cowering. No more wishing things were different. He was going to _make_ them different. The wolves may have been powerful, but they were nothing compared to the fury in his soul.

He lay down beside his mate, glaring through the darkness at him. _That’s right_ , he thought. _Sleep easy, Alpha. While you still can._


	15. Chapter 15

“There is nothing more beautiful than an Omega mother.

They are the most loving, caring, gentle beings in our world.

Some Alphas take pride in savagery, but in these changing times

It is becoming more and more important to look to our mates.

As an Alpha, you took part in making your child,

and as a father, you must take part in loving them.”

_—High Alpha Francis Bonnefoy, Royal Observations_

 

The next day, Arthur left the castle with Ludwig at his side, escorting him to the prison to see his brother. He’d expected Francis to take him, but as it turned out, _I don’t frequent those rougher parts of my city. If I went along, we’d have to double the guards. Best if you go without me, Arthur._ And then Ludwig had walked into the grand hall, looking for his brother, and Francis had sent the pair of them off with what Arthur was quickly recognizing as kingly rhetoric. _Ah, Ludwig, you’re not doing anything too urgent, are you? You wouldn’t mind taking Arthur to the prison to see his brother._

What could Ludwig do? Say no, argue with the High Alpha? So they were off to the prison.

Arthur glanced up at the tall man, though not into his eyes, of course. “I’m sorry, if I’m keeping you from something—”

Ludwig shook his head as they made their way down the castle steps. “Nothing important.”

Arthur fell into silence. He wasn’t sure if it would be safe to chat with Ludwig or not. He’d seemed nice yesterday, and he definitely didn’t prescribe to the Speak When Spoken To sentiment like some Alphas, considering all the nattering Feliciano had done at the celebrations. Still, Ludwig was in full uniform now, with his bayonet-fitted rifle on his back. The blade didn’t frighten Arthur—everyone used knives in the village, for a long list of purposes—but the rifle did. A knife could slash his throat. So could a wolf’s teeth. But at least he would have some warning. He could be shot in the back and not realize until he’d died. _Where would I be then?_ He thought, a different sort of fear chilling his heart. _Where will I go?_

He opened his mouth to ask that very question, but paused in confusion when he saw Ludwig step over to Antonio’s house and peer through a window for a moment. When the Alpha rejoined him, Arthur asked, “Is Lovino in there?”

“I didn’t see him.” Ludwig looked like he might say something else, but in the end he left it there.

Arthur waited as long as he could before asking, “May I ask you something?”

Ludwig nodded. He was probably capable of an expression that wasn’t quite so serious, but Arthur hadn’t seen an overwhelming amount of that in evidence. “ _Ja_.”

“Where do you think we go when we die?”

“We go to the mountain.” Ludwig glanced at him, eyebrows raised slightly. “You’ve never heard of this? Antonio didn’t teach you about it?”

Arthur felt a little panicked. The lessons of Naturalism blurred together in his mind. He’d been too worried about learning bows and signs of respect to pay attention to the religious elements. Plus, Antonio’s voice had a certain raspiness . . . it was sort of rumbly, the way his Rs rolled, and his words flowed effortlessly . . . it was a wonderful voice for dozing off into daydreams. He imagined Lovino slept soundly beside him every night. It wouldn’t be terrible, drifting off while Antonio spoke softly about the things he’d done that day. What did the king’s advisor talk about in bed? Taxes, probably. Trades. When they would have the next big hunt.

Ludwig must have grown tired of Arthur’s silence, because he went on, “Well, as I said. We go to the mountain. It’s a huge mountain. The size of a thousand kingdoms. We’re free to hunt and run as we please. At night we fill the sky with song.”

Arthur had to admit, it sounded pretty nice. Running and howling with a pack. The companionship of it appealed to him on a deeper level. Always someone at your side. Someone to have your back. Someone to protect you and expect only the same in return.

“Where is the mountain, though?” Arthur asked. “And where do Omegas go?”

“The mountain is . . .” The blond Alpha shook his head as though he had insects in his hair. “It isn’t anywhere in our world. It’s elsewhere. Only souls go there, when they leave bodies behind.” He inclined his head to a fellow guard passing by, then added, “As for Omegas, they go to the mountain as well, to live with Alphas as they do in life.”

That didn’t sound as appealing. “Do we fly together there, while the Alphas hunt?”

Ludwig’s gaze drifted, uncertain. “I . . . I wouldn’t know. I suppose you would.”

Not exactly as noble as the wolves sounded, but hopefully death wouldn’t be as unequal as life. _I don’t need to worry about that yet,_ Arthur thought. _I’m still young. Death is far, far away._

The prison was smaller than he thought it would be, a brick box with metal bars instead of glass in the windows. No windows up in the walls, either, just little ones along the bottom, so it looked like there were hands reaching up from within the ground, like swamp monsters. Inside, some ragged voice shouted, “I smell a birdie!” and more calls and cries went up. It sounded like there were a hundred men in there, all of them bellowing or screeching for Arthur’s favor even though, from where they were, he couldn’t see them and they couldn’t see him.

Ludwig was watching him with some sympathy. “By the king’s order, your brother is to be released later today. Once he’s sobered up, I can take him to see you in the castle before he leaves.”

Arthur looked up at the German in amazement. The way Lovino talked about Ludwig, you’d think he was villainous, but Arthur didn’t see it at all. He didn’t have anything personal against Alphas like Lovino did. They were often awful to Omegas, but it wasn’t always them. Typically, it was just the way they were raised. Society was to blame, not the Alphas themselves. Society could be changed. Who changed it? The ones in charge. Who was in charge? Arthur’s mate. The man he loved speaking to in private, because they threw words back and forth like friends, comrades, equals. Francis could be changed. Arthur believed that wholeheartedly. If Francis was changed, he would change Western Eurasia for the better. It was only a matter of time, and they had plenty of that.

“That would be very kind, thank you, sir,” Arthur said, smiling gratefully. He gave a small bow, just for good measure.

Ludwig nodded. “It’s no trouble. Providing your brother doesn’t cause any trouble, at the castle.” There was a warning hidden in there. He was a Royal Guard, after all. He had a large interest in guarding royals.

“He won’t,” Arthur promised. “He’s quite well-behaved, when he’s sober.”

To be perfectly honest, Arthur wasn’t sure why he wanted to see his brother, or why he’d been so happy to know he attended the wedding celebrations. Old habits, perhaps—he was so used to Alistair being all he had, even if he was rude. Very rude, when he got going. But still, it was familiar, so it had a certain comfort in it. Arthur was touched that his brother had come, even if he’d gotten drunk and started street-fighting. He did want to hear his brother congratulate him. He wanted his son to have, as well as an Uncle Gil and Uncle Toni, an Uncle Ali. He knew that was the Omega in him talking, longing for a big family full of love and support. But what would be so wrong with that?

If Francis could change, so could Alistair. Arthur couldn’t give up hope on the bad Alphas. He couldn’t expect them to fail, because that was precisely what the Alphas did to Omegas.

 

. . .

 

As promised, later that day Ludwig brought Alistair to the castle. The Scot was in the same clothes he’d been in yesterday; Arthur wasn’t sure why he’d expected his brother to be in prison garb outside the prison. He got to his feet as the pair strode up to him in the grand hall (a servant had brought him a chair, because, even this early in the pregnancy, Francis wanted him to rest whenever possible).

“Here you are, Mr. Kirkland,” Ludwig said, tone far more serious than the one he’d used earlier.

Arthur nearly said _thank you_ , assuming he was being addressed, then realized with a jolt that he was not, and would never be again, Mr. Kirkland. He was Arthur Bonnefoy. Mate of the High Alpha of Western Eurasia. A royal heir was growing in his womb. His blood would lead and protect this kingdom in the years to come.

He kept his gaze appreciatively lowered, as was proper for Omegas, but he straightened his spine and even puffed out his chest a little (not hard, with the weight he’d been gaining). He was not the Omega his older brother had once kicked around like a waste of space. He was loved and cherished. He had two Italian friends! He was a new Omega. No—a new man.

“Aye, thanks,” Alistair said to Ludwig, voice thick and a bit ragged from all his screaming yesterday. His eyes were reddened and wary; he must have been hungover.

Ludwig lingered to glance at Arthur. He had no Alpha to dismiss him, and this was essentially a service done for Arthur. Not an order, of course, Omegas couldn’t give these. For an Omega to say _that will be all_ to an Alpha was ludicrous. So for a moment they stood at a bewildered impasse. Ludwig needed to be dismissed, but Arthur couldn’t do it, and Alistair couldn’t either, being a prisoner as-was.

At last Ludwig simply inclined his head to no one in particular and told Arthur, “Give my greetings to the king.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you again,” Arthur added.

Ludwig turned and left, but Arthur was fairly certain he glimpsed a smile on the blond guard’s thin lips. _Lovino really is too hard on him._

And now it was just Arthur and Alistair, facing each other, more different than they had ever been. Alistair’s eyes went from the crown of Arthur’s head down to his toes then back up again. Arthur struggled to discern what his brother was thinking. It was not a lascivious action, as it would have been from Francis; it was the same dishearteningly appraising look Alistair had always given. The only difference was, before, the Alphas had curled his lip and complained about how useless his ugly Omega was. But now?

Alistair’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You look good, Arthur.”

Arthur could barely stifle his gasp. A compliment! After so long—two decades, his whole life—of insults! He put a protective hand over the swell of his stomach and said, with a shy dip of his chin, “I’m carrying.”

Now Alistair’s eyes widened. “Already?” Then he thought about it, nodding slowly. “Yes, I suppose—your Heat was . . .”

“Weeks past,” Arthur finished. He didn’t want to let the conversation lull, so he asked the first thing that came to mind. “Have you been alright without me?”

The same old scorn lit his brother’s gaze. “Alright without you?” He snorted. “Of course. One less mouth to feed. No Omega underfoot.”

“So you haven’t found a mate, then,” Arthur noted, making his tone as innocent as he could with the smugness inside him. How good it felt to have the perfect response! Lovino had taught him well.

Alistair winced, as expected, but quickly shrugged it off, feigning indifference. “No, not yet. I’m in no rush. I’m enjoying a Heat-free household while I can.”

Arthur nodded like he very much believed those statements to be true. “Do you cook?”

Alistair was quiet for longer than Arthur thought was strictly necessary. “Not yet,” he eventually repeated. “But I will. A wolf doesn’t need to cook,” he went on gruffly. “A wolf can eat as soon as he kills. It’s you birds who make everything into a fluffy production.”

Arthur had argued with Alistair enough to know there was no chance for him to win. He decided to try a more polite approach to the mountain of red-haired belligerence that was his brother. “Would you like to come in for some tea?”

One would have to be far more of a bastard than Alistair Kirkland to decline tea in the High Alpha’s castle. Arthur led the way to the dining room, relishing the way his brother’s eyes widened in awe at the sight of such majesty. _Is that what I looked like, coming in the first day?_ Alistair stood out like a sore thumb among the French finery. It occurred to Arthur for the first time that perhaps that was what had made Francis choose him. He was so clearly a country Omega. He’d stood out from the rest. A weakness, from his point of view, but the deciding factor for his mate. _Funny how those things work._

Antonio and Francis were already having tea in the dining room, and they both gave smiles to the entering brothers. Francis held out a hand to draw Arthur near; he pressed a kiss to a soft cheek and said, “We were just talking about you, _mon amour_.”

Arthur smiled and whispered, “Good things?”

Francis chuckled. “But of course. The best.” He turned his attention to Alistair, voice abruptly hardening. “And you must be the criminal my guards should have killed?”

The Scot had become quite flustered. He shifted his feet nervously, then—when the High Alpha’s icy gaze met his—he immediately dropped into a bow, bent horizontal from the hips up. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. I wanted to apologize to you before anything, I—er—I had a bit too much to drink, and—”

Francis exchanged an amused glance with Antonio before interrupting, “Be at ease, Mr. Kirkland. The Captain is in charge of dealing with crime; what happened on the street is between you and him. And one other person, come to think of it.” He sat back in his chair, gesturing regally to his mate. “Have you thanked Arthur? He did save your life.”

Alistair stared at Arthur in a confusion that Antonio shared; they were both too wasted at that point in the celebrations to recall what Francis was talking about.

At Francis’s expectant look, Arthur explained hesitantly, “Gilbert was about to kill you for attacking him and I asked him not to.”

“And he listened?” Antonio asked, highlighting the miraculous part of the story. His wide eyes were only a bit reddened from the remnants of the alcohol in his system. Arthur was glad to see the Spaniard had no sign of the unhappiness he’d drowned the day before. Arthur and Lovino had been unable to pinpoint a reason for the gloom. Odd that Antonio had left his mate at home today. _He probably didn’t_ , Arthur thought. _Lovino’s probably just visiting Feli._

“Yes, he did,” Francis replied. “And don’t bother asking him about it. I almost thought he would snap at me when I did.”

“He’s not used to showing mercy,” Antonio remarked, sipping his tea.

“No,” Francis agreed thoughtfully. “But that’s good, in his line of work.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Mm.” Francis glanced at Alistair. “We’re still waiting for you to sit down and thank Arthur. Unless you’d rather just stand there looking _stupide_.”

Antonio chuckled, and Arthur hid a smile. Elements of the trio of friends showed up among them when you least expected it. Gilbert fathering Matthew with the same gentle care as Francis. Francis’s words edged with barbs like Gilbert’s. They seemed so different when together, but the edges blurred when they weren’t all present for reference. Arthur wondered if the same thing would happen to him and Lovino. Would their qualities bleed together into one Omega? Not an entirely unpleasant concept. Would it be someone Francis loved, or Antonio?

Alistair quickly took a seat, cleared his throat, and struggled for a moment to meet his brother’s gaze. “Thanks, Arthur.”

Arthur wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt so proud. First his brother complimented him, unprompted. Now his mate had gotten him to thank him. And, through it all, best of all—Alistair was completely unsure of himself here. He didn’t know how to conduct himself among the highest people in the kingdom—the people who had essentially become Arthur’s family. Even if Omegas had no status, he was still better than his brother, no matter how you looked at it. Arthur let himself smile now. Finally, he wasn’t being made to feel inadequate.

“Ahem, Arthur,” Francis said, clearing his throat and glancing toward the door meaningfully.

His satisfaction dropped away like a load of bricks. Even with his mate—even with his brother—as an Omega, he was not permitted to sit at the same table.

Arthur painted a smile on his face, curtsied, and left the room quickly, so no one would see the tears pricking his eyes. It was nice for the second it lasted. But he had to stay positive. One moment of an Omega rising up was better than nothing. Everything started somewhere. Baby steps, at first. Arthur thought of Matthew. If it went well, the little Omega would come to age in an equal world.

 _I have to believe it’s possible_ , Arthur told himself. _If I don’t, who will?_

 

. . .

 

After how gentle and understanding Francis was during Arthur’s Heat, the Omega expected him to be the same during his pregnancy, but he was shocked by the extent of it. He was, by no stretch of the imagination, completely spoiled. Each day, Francis showered him in gifts and attention. He gave him jewels and gowns, shoes and sweets, cuddles and massages. Arthur’s protests were brushed aside with ease. _What about your duties?_ Antonio would take care of them. _What about Matthew?_ Gilbert would look after him. Francis wanted Arthur to do nothing but sit, eat, rest, and grow his son.

But with eating and resting came boredom. Francis could only provide so much entertainment; eventually, one grew tired of talking and snuggling, and a break was in order. Feliciano and Lovino visited most days, but they couldn’t spend too much time away from their respective households; they had duties there to fulfill, after all. And so Arthur found himself frequenting the library. The books were legion and his reading skills were not the greatest. There were enough words here to last him a lifetime, it seemed like. Arthur got to work on them. Depending on the book, it could take up three days or three weeks, but he always pushed through; there was something deliciously satisfying about taking a word through the eyes, into the mind, and forming it into a fantasy there. As he progressed through the shelves, he decided to organize them. Francis forbade him from climbing the ladder to reach the higher volumes, so for now he was restricted to anything in arms’ reach, but even that was a surplus. Some volumes were in French, and though he didn’t read them, he asked Francis to translate their titles so he could best decide what order to place them in. His mate assured him he could have a servant do this busywork in Arthur’s stead, but the Omega waved it away. “I have to do _some_ thing!”

As Arthur’s belly grew larger, he found himself changing in personality as well as size. The defiance he had once felt at Alistair’s snide comments was replaced with a teary softness. His brother paid monthly visits to the castle (never staying for tea, though; Francis claimed they’d scared the Scot off) and was generally well-behaved, but at the first sign of a jab, Arthur’s strength vanished. And, to his surprise, his brother relented every time. Alistair touched his arm or his shoulder, and even gently wiped the tears from his cheeks at one point. Arthur told the Vargas brothers about the perplexing development, and Feliciano smiled knowingly. “It’s because you’re finally acting like an Omega! It’s bringing out the Alpha in him. Everybody always says Alphas are mean and growly on the inside, but that’s just not true! Deep down, they just want to give hugs! They’re snuggly wolves inside, not mean growly ones. They just want to protect us and keep us happy.”

Lovino hadn’t said anything about Feliciano’s theory. He hadn’t said anything at all, actually, for the majority of their visits. While the others talked, he stared at the wall or the floor, brooding. When Arthur asked him why he was limping, it was Feliciano who replied. “Oh, he told me, he tripped and hurt his leg! I tripped and scraped my knee once, but Ludwig licked it all better, wolves have very soft tongues . . .”

Arthur knew something was bothering Lovino. He was typically quiet, but this was a whole new level. It troubled him deeply, even moreso now that his emotions surged without warning. He tried desperately to make Lovino speak like he used to, and when it didn’t work, he wept—which seemed to have the same effect on Lovino as it did on Alistair. The Italian awkwardly said, “It’s okay, I’m sorry,” and patted Arthur’s back. But he never smiled. His eyes were never bright. And, most telling of a problem, he had stopped mocking the Alphas behind their backs. Every time Arthur sought Lovino’s gaze, the other Omega was staring blankly at the floor.

The answer didn’t come until one night toward the end of the pregnancy, when Francis came to bed after a bit too much drinking with Gilbert and Antonio. He kissed Arthur’s belly through his nightgown, then his cheek, and the words came, amused, on a fume of wine: “Toni tells me his taming is going well. I suspect he’s having a session right now.”

“Taming?” Arthur echoed, confused.

“ _Oui_ ,” Francis murmured, lips against Arthur’s breast. They were nice and plump now, creamy; the milk would come soon, and Arthur was curious to taste it (he wanted to know if it would taste like what the cows gave). “He has been taming Lovino each night,” Francis continued. “He’s a very wild Omega, have you noticed? Everyone knew he would be trouble. I didn’t think Toni could do it, but he told me after the first night he saw a difference, and he’s been keeping it up since then. Some Omegas just need to have dominance regularly asserted.” He smiled fondly, stroking Arthur’s thighs. “But not you, _mon amour_. You are very good.”

Arthur spoke to Lovino about it the next day, horrified. “Did Antonio—”

“Don’t,” Lovino snapped, nearly a snarl in his voice, a deeper voice than any Omega Arthur had ever met, now that he thought about it.

Arthur had to persist. “But, if he hurts you—”

“I don’t”—Lovino stepped forward, close enough to glare directly into Arthur’s eyes—“want to talk about it.”

Arthur had cried, obviously, and Lovino had sighed and put an arm around him. It was horrible to know what the Spanish Alpha did every night, then see him laughing and smiling with Francis, always greeting Arthur in that cheerful way of his. Asserting dominance? No. It was torture. Arthur saw the bruises on Lovino’s neck and shoulders when his collar slipped. He saw the Omega’s slight jump whenever Antonio barely brushed him. Just thinking about it was enough to bring tears to his eyes. How could they get ahead if this was what Alphas reduced them to? Trembling in tears or cowering away from tiny touches?

Arthur longed for the days before his pregnancy, when he felt a clarity of mind, when his thoughts were his own. Now he craved strange things, he was sick constantly, he was drawn to the light of the moon. When the Alphas howled for a hunt, a sadness deep within him flowed like a winter stream. He yearned to join them, but he was trapped inside the castle. Were these the feelings of a caged animal, or of the Alpha inside him? He didn’t know. His body was so big, it wasn’t his anymore. Neither his brain nor his body belonged to him. His freedom was stolen completely in the final weeks, when his legs were no longer strong enough to carry him down to the library. Francis brought his meals as he had during Heat, and cut the food into bits small enough to swallow without needing to chew; a blessing, because his jaw ached so much he could barely move it to speak, let alone eat. The sheets were perpetually soaked with sweat, and yet he felt frozen. Francis had blankets brought in from the other rooms, and held a hand over Arthur’s forehead, but jerked it away in the same second. “ _Mon dieu,_ you are burning . . .”

He slept, but he could not say how long. Was he awake? He had no way of telling. He felt like he was floating, all sensation gone.

“Just a fever,” he heard someone say. “No cause for concern. He would have gone into Heat nine times through this pregnancy. It’s unsurprising that his body wants to release some heat. I’ve heard of cases like this before.”

“He is sick.” Was that Francis? “I have lost one mate already. I will not lose this one.”

“You’re right, you won’t. He’s not dying. He’s just a bit hot. And look. See this?”

Vaguely, something between his legs. The baby? Was it an Alpha?

“Get your hands off my mate.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty. I only wished to show you that he’s dilated. The baby will start to come soon, probably within the hour. But he’ll need to come around if he’s going to push.”

“And if he doesn’t . . . come around?”

“I’ve cut babies out in the past. But let’s hope he pushes. Shall I wake him?”

“No. I will do it.”

A touch to his cheek, something wet and cold, cloth. Francis’s voice, gentle. “Arthur, _mon amour_ . . . I’m here. We must bring you here, too. You must push, for our son.”

Arthur tried his best to go toward the front of his mind. It was like he could see his eyes, far above him; like he’d fallen to the back of his own skull. Light was coming through. He swam through murky thoughts and dreams, trying to reach it, but every move he made brought a ripple of pain.

“That’s right, come back to me,” Francis encouraged, caressing Arthur’s damp hair.

A sound of guttural agony forced its way out of Arthur as he at last found himself again. He felt more present than he had for months, and as another contraction passed through him, he felt more pain than he had for his entire life. It tore scream after scream from him; Francis gave up trying to quiet him and instead shouted his encouragement over the shrieks. Everyone in the upper streets of the capital would remember the racket of the king’s heir being born. The loud boy—at times obnoxiously so—was preceded by a pair of deafening voices. Gilbert, sparring in the courtyard, paused and looked up toward the castle. Antonio and Lovino, sitting together in their typical tense silence, both winced at the throat-tearing bellows.

And then, through the noise, through the tears, the blood, the sweat, the fear—joy came, in the form of a bright red boy slipping out onto the mattress. He was positively huge; Matthew was a chubby toddler, but this one was just downright large. No wonder he had given Arthur’s thin hips such difficulty. He knew what he wanted; his first cry, peeling squeakily, was so clearly to ask for milk that, to Arthur, the baby may as well have written out a note and passed it to him.

Arthur took his son into his arms and let him latch on to a nipple. Here was a new, unexpected pain: the dusky red flesh was tender, and the baby’s relentless sucking was not exactly akin to the gentle kisses of his father. But Arthur would bear it. It was his duty. Feeding his son filled him with an instinctive pride as fierce as a summer sun. He was a mother!

“Arthur.”

He looked up at his name, syllables slowed by wonder. Francis was watching them, such complete adoration on his face. The High Alpha leant down to nuzzle Arthur’s forehead, then did the same to his son. The baby’s strong brow furrowed at the scent of an Alpha, and he gave the softest, sweetest little growl. Any confusion of his gender was thrown neatly out the window. He was a pup.

“Oh,” Francis said, a word of pure delight. “Our little Alpha.” He trailed kisses from Arthur’s cheek to his temple. “You did it, _mon amour_. You gave me an Alpha son. You are so beautiful! You are perfect.”

Arthur only vaguely heard the compliments. His attention was on the Alpha in his arms. Such strength, in such a tiny body. No fear, just an instinctive confidence. Everything Arthur wished—had given up wishing—he had. The name came to him, all at once, the name for this little prince who already seemed to know he had no challengers for his throne.

“Alfred,” Arthur murmured. The baby’s translucent eyelashes fluttered as he continued to nurse.

He expected protest—it was not a French name—but Francis seemed to agree that it suited him, because he smiled fondly and said, “Prince Alfred Bonnefoy. A name for the legends, _oui_?”

 _Yes_ , Arthur thought as he began to give in to his full-body exhaustion. _A name to go down in history._


	16. Chapter 16

“The Alpha’s inability to give birth

proves that they are inferior to Omegas.

Their lack of intellect and self-control

simply enhances this truth.”

_—Emperor Yao Wang, The Compendium_

 

The first week after Alfred was born would turn out to be the best. Arthur didn’t move an inch; he simply lay in bed with Alfred nursing and sleeping, only leaving his mother’s arms when his father just had to told him. No one else was allowed into the bedchamber for those first seven days, not even a doctor. Arthur worried his fever would return, that perhaps it was a foreshadowing of some insidious disease, but Francis kissed his concern away. “You are healthy, _mon amour_ ,” the king assured him without taking his gaze from the pup in his arms. “If you were not, I would smell it, or you would know. We are healthy and happy, aren’t we, Alfred?” The dozing baby gave no response.

The first visitor was Matthew. Francis carried him in and set him down on the bed beside Arthur. The nestling seemed to have grown since Arthur last saw him, or perhaps he was misremembering; Matthew had been barred from the bedroom in case he caught the mysterious fever. Now the toddler peered at his half-brother with bright, curious violet eyes. Alfred continued drinking, olivious.

 _“Il est ton frère,”_ Francis said helpfully, watching his son with the old familiar fondness, a much less intense love than the ardent feelings he had for Alfred. (Which made sense. Matthew need only grow up into a beautiful, kind Omega with healthy children. Alfred had to take Francis’s place one day, and bring honor to his family and his kingdom. Quite the burden for a baby’s tiny shoulders.)

Matthew's little pink mouth rounded into an O, his famous look of wonder. To Arthur, he squeaked, _"Mon frère?"_

Arthur was at a loss. "Uh . . ." He slid his gaze to Francis—who mouthed  _brother_ amusedly—then nodded to Matthew, smiling. "Yes, he's your little Alpha brother. His name is Alfred."

Matthew gazed down at the suckling pup in awe. He reached a little hand to touch Alfred’s soft fuzz of hair, as if testing that he was real. The scent of an Omega didn’t bother Alfred; he gave a soft grunt, snuffled, then resumed suckling. Arthur’s nipples had not yet grown accustomed to the assault, but his maternal instincts blocked out the worst of the pain. Tender teats were no problem for a mother! The baby must be fed!

The next visitors were, oddly, Lovino and Feliciano. Arthur expressed his surprise when Francis told him of their arrival. “I thought you would have wanted Antonio and Gilbert to meet Alfred first.” His mate had chuckled. “Would you have let them through the door?” And Arthur realized that the idea of having two Alphas near his son—regardless of who they were—made him bristle with protectiveness. He knew, with a resolute ferocity that astonished him, that he would die to protect the pup in his arms. He felt a bit bad that the same emotion did not apply to Matthew, or indeed to Francis. Perhaps what the king always said was true. Blood ties were more important than anything else.

Feliciano was positively delighted to see the baby. “Oh, look at his little head! And his little hands! And his little—everything! He’s such a cute little baby!” Every sentence rose in pitch until by the end  he was squealing like a wolf with a stepped-on tail. The squeaky words were like nails through Arthur’s ears.

“Stop that,” Lovino snapped. “You’ll shatter the windows.” No one minded this negativity; Francis had gone to fetch some snacks, and Feliciano and Arthur were just glad that something had made Lovino speak.

“Can I hold him, Arthur? Oh, please? Just for a second?” Feliciano pleaded, clasping his hands together and stretching his amber eyes into a sad puppy look.

Arthur was a tad reluctant, but his arms could do with a stretch, and he knew he could trust the Italian brothers with his child. So he carefully lifted Alfred up and offered him to Feli. It felt like handing over a leg; Arthur’s son was a part of him, it felt surreal and innately wrong to give him away. “He might not like it . . .”

Feliciano cradled Alfred as Arthur had been, smiling down at him in a glowing way that made Arthur feel certain the other Omega was imagining the babies he would one day have with Ludwig. He’d often spoken about longing for a big family, and Ludwig’s status could easily provide for one. Abruptly, Alfred stirred, realized he was in different arms than his usual, and gave the first smaller cries of a tantrum. Without prompting, Feliciano offered the boy his pinkie finger; the pup gave it a brief sniff, then began sucking on it with a grunt that seemed to say, _It’s not the best, but I suppose it’ll do for now._

Arthur had begun to reach for Alfred at the cries, but he let his hands fall back to the bed. A fond smile warmed his face. “You’ll be a good mother, Feli.”

Feliciano glanced up, lips an O of the Matthew variety. “You think so?”

“Of course you will,” Arthur assured him. “You’re an—” He stopped himself just short of saying _Omega._ He couldn’t keep generalizing like the Alphas did, like Naturalism did. An Omega was not naturally cut out for motherhood just because of their body parts. After all, would someone like Lovino make a good mother? Perhaps, but certainly not in the traditional sense. So Arthur finished instead with, “A kind and loving person.”

Feliciano gave a wide smile, eyes shimmering. “Thank you, Arthur.” He looked down at Alfred, saying softly, “I hope I’ll be as good a mother as yours, Prince Alfred.” He wandered a bit away from the bed, gently bouncing the pup in his arms and singing what Arthur assumed was an Italian lullaby. It was—as such things tended to be—far more beautiful than any Arthur had heard in his own language.

Arthur turned his head as the mattress shifted; Lovino had joined him on the bed. The dark-haired Omega seemed enthralled with a thread fraying from his sleeve. “How was childbirth?”

Arthur wasn’t sure where this Lovino had come from, but he was glad nonetheless. He was the closest Lovino had been to his old self in months, almost a year. God, how time had flown. “Oh, it was alright. A little uncomfortable.”

“So I heard.” Lovino arched an eyebrow, but kept his gaze on that thread, fingering it absently. “You were all very loud.”

“We were celebrating.” Arthur didn’t like the oddly combative vibe of the conversation, even though the voices they used were light. “It’s not every day a prince is born.” He tried to change the subject a little, bringing in their old mockery of Alphas. “Francis finally served his purpose, I guess.”

Lovino finally lifted his gaze to Arthur, eyes hard to match his flat voice. “No, you did. You say he’s been so nice to you all these months, you think I’m too hard on Alphas. You think _Oh, my Francis is different._ I know you think it, don’t deny it. I see how you look at him, I know you love him. But I have a prediction. Would you like to hear it?”

This was not Lovino. This was nine months of being raped every night. There was no justice in it. Arthur could say nothing else. “Yes.”

The brunette leaned closer, eyes narrowing, each word cutting deeper than the last. “I think that, now that you’ve given him this kid, Our Majesty will treat you like any other Omega. Just a servant, or a hole in the wall. A slave. You’ve done what he got you to do, and now he’s going to toss you aside.”

Arthur could forgive Lovino for being upset, after what he had been through. But he had to draw the line somewhere, and here it was. “No. You’re wrong, Lovi. Francis won’t do that. You see how I look at him, but do you see how he looks at me? He loves me. In his way.”

What had made him add that little allowance on the end? Lovino pounced on it. “In his way? Right. And just you wait. _His way_ will be crushing you into this mattress every night.”

Defiance flared in Arthur. It had been quite a while since he felt it, genuinely felt it. It was something he had thought was left behind in Alistar’s house; he hadn’t been scolded for being provocable since moving out. Now, if an Alpha saw the look in his eyes, he would be scolded sharply if not beaten. But there were no Alphas here now, just two Omegas sitting on a bed together like friends and glaring at each other like enemies.

“No. I won’t sit here and listen to you say terrible things about my mate. You barely even know him! He’s never raised a hand at me—”

“Neither did the tomato bastard,” Lovino snarled, raising his voice just short of a shout, “ _until he did_! You never see it coming. They don’t have to justify themselves to us. They’re just damned animals. One second they’re fine, the next they’re ripping you to pieces! Don’t act like your stupid frog is any better! He’s the same as the rest of them! They’re all evil! I—”

“Lovi!” Feliciano cried, admonishing. The boy in his arms broke off from his finger and stretched his mouth wide open to let out a piercing wail. Arthur’s heart knew what it meant, and it broke him: _I’m afraid! Save me! Feed me!_

Arthur reached for him in a way that left no room for negotiation, and Feliciano was more than willing to pass the pup to his mother. Arthur kissed his son’s soft forehead, murmuring, “It’s alright, my love, I’m here,” before pulling his shirt aside to let Alfred nurse. The tiny lips sealing over his nipple were a comfort now, despite the pain; this was how he was meant to be, feeding his baby. This was how he was complete.

Lovino stalked to the door, head down, shoulders forward, looking like an animal himself. Feliciano tried to touch his arm, but he jerked away and snapped, “Will that be all, Your Highness? Shall we return to our wonderful mates?”

Arthur could barely look at him. _What’s happening to us?_ “I think you’d better go.”

Lovino gave no response, just tossed his head and stormed out. Feliciano lingered long enough to look sadly at Arthur. “I’m sorry. Maybe we can come again soon?”

Arthur didn’t know if that was a good idea, but he couldn’t deny the hopeful look in the younger Omega’s face. _He’s only young, fifteen at the most, and Lovino’s not much older. It’s not their fault._ He gave his best attempt at a friendly smile. “Yes, soon.”

It was a few days before Francis brought in his advisor and the captain of the Guard. At the sight of Gilbert’s broad shoulders in the doorway, Arthur shrank back into the pillows, holding Alfred close. He must have looked challenging in his protective pose, because Gilbert’s voice had a light warning in it as he said, “Look alive, Omega.”

“Oh, relax, Gilbert,” Francis said, nudging his friend’s muscular arm with his own—er, what could one call it—kingly one. “This bedroom is no place for your military strictures.” He put an arm around Antonio’s shoulders, smirking. “There’s a good word, hm, _mon ami_?”

Perhaps Arthur was imagining things, but Antonio’s smile seemed a bit strained. “Very good, Your Majesty.”

Francis laughed, stepping over to the bed. “Both of you are so formal today. Relax! This is a happy day.” He gently took Alfred from Arthur’s arms—thankfully the baby was dozing without suckling, or it would have made for a startling yank on the nipple and a rudely interrupted meal—and turned to his friends, glowing with pride. “Here he is. I present to you, Prince Alfred Bonnefoy.”

Gilbert tilted his head to one side, sizing the little boy up with a smile slowly spreading across his lips. “Not as cute as Matthew.”

“Cute?” Francis peered down at his son for a moment as if to assess his levels of cuteness. “Well, he is certainly handsome, even if he is not as cute. Besides, he is an Alpha, he doesn’t have to be cute. Isn’t that right, Toni?”

Antonio’s smile still didn’t appear normal. His eyes were slightly narrowed in a way that passed for joy at a quick glance, but on closer inspection he looked to be in pain. Arthur couldn’t think why. Perhaps he had a stomachache. _Bloody hell, I hope Lovino isn’t poisoning him._ Such a dark thought to have in a safe place like this, the bedroom, the nursery, the nest. Arthur still felt anger and betrayal and hurt when he thought of his friend and their last conversation, but he didn’t think Lovino was heartless enough to actually, wilfully end a life. But his words nagged at Arthur’s conscience. _You never see it coming._ Could the same be said for an Omega’s actions?

He didn’t want to wait and lose his nerve, so he asked right away. “Antonio, are you alright, sir? You look sort of . . . ill.”

All three Alphas turned to look at him with confused expressions, but Arthur saw a second’s flash of panic in the Spaniard’s hazel eyes before he smiled at Arthur, this time seeming genuine. “Yes, I’m alright. Thank you for the concern, Arthur.”

Francis’s gaze softened with yet more fondness; he had an infinite supply these days. “Ah, look at him, feeling motherly for everyone now. You really must get yourself a mate, Gilbert. Omegas are so . . .” He trailed off, trying to find the perfect word—a word, Arthur suspected, that would convey appreciation without too much respect.

Gilbert arched an eyebrow, dubious with a derisory edge that only he could get away with.

Francis finally shrugged and said, “Well, they are lovely and good to have around. Very helpful in manners you wouldn’t even think of.”

Gilbert’s face didn’t change. “Mmhm.” He held his hands out, expectant. “Well, are you gonna let me hold him?”

Francis chuckled knowingly and offered the baby. “Be—”

“Gentle,” Gilbert finished apathetically; all his attention was on Alfred. The tiny Alpha knew immediately that he was in the arms of a far stronger man, a wolf he had not met before, who didn’t smell mean but could at any moment. He began to whimper, but it was not in a way Arthur had heard before, and it did not speak to him as the other cries did. It was a wolfish sound, not a human one. Gilbert looked down at him, at his dark blue eyes still unfocused from simple virtue of being so new. Such a pure little creature, not yet tainted by the horrors of the world. No, Gilbert would have no trouble protecting this one as he protected the other Bonnefoys. Handing him back to his father, he remarked, “He’s a smart one.”

Francis smiled proudly. “ _Oui_ , I know.” Seeing Arthur’s puzzled expression, he explained, “He was showing instinctive submission. So clever! Of course, one day he will not have to show submission to anyone. But he is a very smart little pup.” He nuzzled Alfred’s pale hair, then glanced at Antonio. “Would you like to hold him?”

Antonio opened his mouth, but it was a moment before the words came out. “Ah, no, I don’t think. He looks hungry, he should go back with his mama.”

“Oh! Are you hungry, _petit chiot_?” he cooed to Alfred, who raised a tiny fist, an action presumably by random synapse but still enough to draw fond laughter from the gathered Alphas. Safe in Arthur’s arms again, Alfred suckled hungrily, with extra snuffles and growls as if he knew he had an audience and wanted to show off. Arthur stroked his small warm back, marvelling for the millionth time how he actually existed, with Arthur’s blood beating in his veins. Then he glanced up and saw the trio all watching him, Francis loving, Gilbert amused, but Antonio—

The Spaniard turned quickly when Arthur looked up. “Shall we give them some privacy? Maybe a hunt, just the three of us? We haven’t had one in a while.”

Gilbert snorted. “Sure, I’ll catch something while you two sniff flowers.”

Francis’s eyebrows spiked, and he grinned. “Oh, I see. Well, Toni and I will feed you those words while _we_ eat the prey we catch before you.”

They continued tossing friendly taunts at each other down the hall, letting the door close behind them, leaving Arthur alone with his pup, unable to remove the image of Antonio’s face from his mind, and the pure, unadulterated jealousy that had twisted his handsome features.

 

. . .

 

At first, Arthur didn’t realize it was happening.

After the first week, Francis no longer spent the majority of his time in the bedchamber. He had the servants bring Arthur a supply of books from the library and returned, for the most part, to his kingly duties. He visited his mate and Alpha son often, bringing with him new scents each time for the boy to experience—blades of grass, clover, even a furry caterpillar that made the pup sneeze. Arthur didn’t understand this, but he didn’t question it; it wasn’t his place, and even if it was, it was more wolfish stuff that he couldn’t understand. Their nights, while Alfred still slept in Arthur’s arms, were much the same as they always were: Francis told Arthur of his day, they traded words, then they kissed goodnight and went to sleep.

Once Alfred began to take longer breaks between nursing, they moved him to a bassinet near Arthur’s side of the bed. This was at once depressing and welcome; Arthur didn’t like being so far from his baby, but he did like being able to sleep in whatever position be pleased. The change proved to be, in Arthur’s opinion, far more trouble than it was worth. At least once in the night, Alfred would scream for milk, and Arthur would have to get up, walk over to the bassinet, pick him up, nurse him, set him down again without upsetting him, and get back into bed. It was disturbing on more than one level, most of all because it almost made him dislike his own child. So greedy, caterwauling in the wee hours of the morning to be fed! But he had to be fed, and he was only a baby. For some reason, Arthur had to keep reminding himself of that fact. _He’s only a baby. He’s only a baby._

But Arthur was not the only one woken by the child. The very first night, when he returned to the bed, he had barely gotten comfortable when he felt Francis’s arms go around him, his mate’s half-hard cock grinding into the small of his back. He mumbled something in French, barely awake, and Arthur was too disoriented to react as his mate slipped inside him. It was not rough, but it wasn’t exactly pleasing for Arthur; in fact, it made him ache a little, his inner walls still loose but sore from the natural disaster of childbirth. Arthur was tired enough to drift off before Francis finished, which Francis did do at some point, because Arthur’s thighs were sticky with seed in the morning. Francis said nothing of it the next day, so Arthur assumed it was an isolated incident, the result of an erotic dream and a semi-awake brain.

He was wrong.

The next night, when Alfred cried, Francis was visibly awake and aware when Arthur got back under the covers. “We are both up, _mon amour_ ,” he murmured with a smirk. “I seem to be quite up, actually . . .” Arthur looked at the Alpha’s stiffening penis in dismay. He just wanted to go back to sleep. But Francis kissed his neck and his shoulders, and stroked his sides, and before Arthur even knew what was happening his mate was up to the hilt. A good thing the birth had left him so pliable. But it was a weak consolation.

Things only worsened from there. Francis spent less and less time in the bedchamber, and when he did come, he had eyes only for his son. And, as it turned out, Alfred had eyes for his father too—or rather, _of_ his father. “Your eyes are blue, just like mine! You will be such a handsome king, _mon fils_.” The pup had taken to giving a squeaky yip when he recognized his father’s face, something he never did for Arthur. There was a large amount of denial built into Arthur, but he could still see what was afoot here. Alfred was an Alpha, and because of that he would never be completely close with his mother. The innate connection they’d shared was slowly but surely fading away as Alfred grew more and more wolfish, Alpha-like, whatever it should be called. Arthur and Alfred shared the entire day together, and yet the hour Francis spent with the boy seemed transcendent in comparison. It was another thing that made him want to cry.

The nightly fucking—it could not be called love-making—was made even worse by the fact that a trend formed where Francis went all day without saying a word or even sparing a glance for his mate, and when he thrust into him at night, he barely kissed, barely caressed. Arthur felt no pleasure at all from it. Sometimes Francis even climbed onto Arthur’s back to do it, as if he didn’t care that his mate’s face was hidden. _I thought I was beautiful. Didn’t you say I was beautiful?_ Or, a better line of inquiry. _I thought you loved me. Didn’t you say you loved me?_

Arthur lost track of how long it went on, but one night he knew he had had enough. Alfred’s cries bore into his temples; a migraine pounded mercilessly to the sickening beat of his heart. The boy’s gums were getting harder every day, forming teeth that would eventually break through. The pregnancy had seemed so slow, and now this was happening so fast, though every night when he was dredged from sleep felt like an eternity. Arthur breathed out a sigh of defeat into the shadows of the room. He wondered which was darker, the air in the room or the air in his lungs. If he breathed out all the dark, would his lungs be bright instead? What if he breathed in some moonlight?

Once Alfred had been fed and burped—no spewing this time, thank God—Arthur tucked him in and went to the window, pulling the curtain away just enough to look out. There was the moon, a bright silver jewel set on black satin. The master bedroom had a view of the fields beyond the city, and Arthur imagined going out there, lying down to stargaze on the cool grass, or taking flight and brushing stars with the tips of his wings. Freedom, utter freedom, the sort that was only real in the imagination, because once you had it, it was never as good as wanting it. _Just like everything else._

“Arthur,” Francis said behind him, still in bed, “what are you doing? Come back to bed, _mon amour_.”

Arthur turned around without drawing the curtain. Francis was sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking his cock and watching him. The sliver of moonlight from the window lit a stripe of his face, one side of a furrowed brow, a dark blue eye watching him with growing impatience. Arthur wanted nothing but to be gone. For the first time, thinking of his old life with Alistair, in all its imperfection and depravity, made homesickness stab into his heart like a blade.

“No,” Arthur heard himself whisper.

“Come,” Francis said again, holding out his free hand. “Come to bed.”

Arthur did not move. Voice trembling, he said, “No.”

Francis’s face hardened. “An Omega does not defy an Alpha. Especially not their mate.” He rose to his feet with a powerful, animalistic grace that Arthur had not yet seen him summon. The tone was one he had not used yet, either; the words fell like stones, unforgiving and uncaring. “You will come over here. Now.”

Arthur wondered if he could make it do the door. No chance, he could not outrun a wolf. Perhaps the window? He didn’t know if he could get it open. And even if he did escape, where would he go? What happy ending could he ever find out there, away from his friends, family, home? His life was here. If he went out there, what was he? Nothing. If he stayed here, what was he?

_A hole in the wall._

Lovino’s words, more than anything else, made him fall to his knees. Francis did not hesitate. He came forward, hand still outstretched, and Arthur actually thought his mate might help him to his feet. Then that hand grabbed the back of his head, fingers tight enough to hurt in his hair, and Francis thrust into Arthur’s mouth. They had done this before, but never standing up. Never with such a grip on Arthur’s head. Never with such a look of cold vengeance in Francis’s eyes. Never hard enough to make Arthur gag. He choked and jerked, trying desperately to cough, to breathe, but Francis continued to slam his cock into Arthur’s skull. His jaw ached; his eyes watered; fear, fear, fear. There was no air, there was just pain and fear and his tongue going numb and his mouth burning with the seed that finally dripped down his throat like salty poison. Francis withdrew and released Arthur, letting the Omega collapse to the floor, heaving and gasping and sobbing.

“Do not challenge me again,” Francis said softly. There was regret in his voice, but Arthur did not hear it.

When the English Omega finally had the strength to drag himself up onto the mattress, his mate was asleep. Arthur curled on his side, as far away from the king as possible. Shaking, he cried silently, keeping as quiet as he could for fear of waking the beast again. His pillow was soaked from his tears, but he could not risk flipping it over. He could not move. He was paralyzed by the terrifying, agonizing truth of it.

_Lovino was right. Francis is just another Alpha._

Arthur didn’t know when he fell asleep, but when he woke, there was sunlight peeking through the crack in the curtains, Alfred was wailing for breakfast, and Francis was long gone, his side of the bed neatly made and cold, as if he had never even been there.


	17. Chapter 17

“Anyone who claims the Omega is weak

Need only step between a mother and her child.”

_—Emil Bondevik_

 

Antonio pressed low to the ground, blades of grass tickling the soft fur of his belly. His left ear swiveled, seeking the barely audible grinding of claws against earth. He turned his head just enough to see Gilbert stepping up to him, a few feet away; the captain’s silver coat was glowing like white fire where the moonlight found it. Normally, he would have rolled in dirt or ash to cover up some of his garish pelt, but tonight he didn’t matter too much. Tonight was not his hunt.

Antonio turned his head the other direction, perking his ears. Through the undergrowth, he could just make out patches of tawny fur. Perhaps Francis sensed Antonio’s gaze—the idea made his heart beat quicker—because he looked over, catching his eye in a gap between brambles. Antonio inclined his head slightly, and waited until Francis looked away to keep moving forward. His tail wanted to wag, but he allowed it only a subtle twitch. He couldn’t afford to be noticed, especially not right now. His plaguing thoughts and feelings were bad enough without ruining a hunt with them. And not just any hunt; the prince’s first.

A flash of silver; Gilbert had flicked his tail. All three wolves halted, intensely aware of each other, of their power as a unit. They were made to hunt together, adapted over centuries of existence, but their bond lent an instinctive, carnal connection. They had planned this hunt out beforehand, for the sake of Alfred, but they did not really need to. They knew what each other would do without having to be told. In this, the pure undertaking of trading a life for sustenance, they were one mind with three bodies. All else fell away.

Tonight, though, Francis was nervous. Antonio knew why; what parent wouldn’t be? Alfred was only six months old. As a baby, he was still defenseless, but as a wolf, he had far more freedom. Most pups preferred to spend their time as wolves, once they had been weaned. It was far easier to play and move. They had to return to human form to learn to walk and talk, of course; it was all a natural part of growing up an Alpha. Nestlings, on the other hand, were rarely seen in bird form. They had no reason to, in civilized society. They had nothing from which to flee, and besides, they had chores that required human hands to complete. Francis had taught Matthew to fly, but it was more of a bonding activity than anything else—that, and an emergency measure. Just in case, god forbid, someone attacked the poor boy.

Whuff of breath, hoof clicking against stone. Antonio couldn’t see them, but he knew a doe was grazing a small distance ahead of him, and he knew Alfred was waiting in his position on the other side. They had tracked the deer to a tiny clearing, and the adult Alphas had circled around, leaving Alfred with a signal to wait. He was an exceedingly clever little pup; he almost reminded Antonio of Gilbert. Both preferred their wolf forms and both liked to chew on things. Gilbert spent many sleepless nights working his way through a bone, and Alfred had taken to chewing on whatever he could get his mouth around. His gums were itchy; milk teeth always caused trouble. Every time Antonio came to the castle these days, Arthur was swatting at Alfred for chewing or clawing or leaving a mess on the floor. It wasn’t as if the Omega had to clean it up himself. Francis could do so much better . . .

Antonio shoved the thoughts away. Francis wasn’t the only distracted one. The Spaniard glanced over at Gilbert a final time. The German Alpha flicked an ear at Antonio, then dove forward with a snarl. Francis hurled himself from the bushes in a streak of gold. Antonio burst into the clearing, night air cold but exhilarating against the fur of his face.

The doe, faced with three growling and snapping wolves, wheeled around and made for the other side of the clearing. The scent of her fear in the air was exciting, her springing sprint a call to action. The wolves had little choice. They gave chase, Gilbert and Francis steering her precisely where they needed her to go.

Just before she reached the trees, a wolf pup leapt out, barking and yapping, hackles up so high he looked like a ball of fluff. Had the doe been capable of logical thought, she would have deduced that this little wolf had no chance of hurting her, and a simple jump over his head would have her on her way to a possible freedom if she could overcome the trio’s stamina. Alas, the deer was a deer, and the flurry of prepubescent aggression had her spinning around yet again and climbing onto her rear hooves, forelegs lashing out. A strike from one of those sharp feet was no laughing matter, but the wolves were experienced. The silver and gold ones worried at her sides in turns, so that she could not focus on one or the other, and as she turned her head fatefully to the left, Antonio lunged for her throat.

It was always harder than he thought it would be, the muscle and bone, the windpipe within. But he had asked to be the killer tonight, and Francis had blessed him with permission. Antonio sank his fangs as deep as they would go, tasted the bristle of hair, the burning rush of delicious blood. The doe battered him with the last of her strength, but he took not notice. His body was here, killing, but his mind was in the past, reliving the last year of his life. Watching Francis take another mate. Watching him believe he was in love again. Hearing him claim _This one is different._ The wedding, the pledge of love. _I take you as my mate._ The pregnancy, the baby, Francis’s worry and his pride, so happy to have a family, to have an Omega, to have what Antonio simply could not give him. And Lovino, oh, Lovino. The nightmare of joining him in bed each night, of letting the Alpha take over for a short while. He knew—he _knew_ , all Alphas knew in some minuscule, subconscious way—that it was wrong. And yet he could not, or would not, stop himself. He couldn’t drown his sorrows in spirits—he had a job to do, during the day, and he would not let Francis down in that way—so he drowned them in Lovino’s pain instead. It was the nighttime that bothered him the most, when he couldn’t stop his dreams, when he knew he would wake up to the wrong man in his bed. _What am I?_ Endless wails within his mind. _What is wrong with me?_

A nose nudged his shoulder; Antonio snapped at it without thinking. Francis stepped back, ears lowering, and before Antonio could show apology, Gilbert was on him, shoving him to his flank on the ground and snarling into his face. Antonio whimpered loudly, a feeble attempt at placation, but it was only at Francis’s signal that Gilbert relented. Antonio crawled to Francis, ears flat and tail tucked, shame burning him like hot coals. _Please forgive me._ He was such a disgrace, how had he ever allowed himself to become so . . . so torn apart by his emotions? No Alpha should let his feelings control him. But no Alpha should long for the things Antonio longed for, either.

Francis did forgive him, allowed him to lick the underside of his jaw and nuzzled a brown ear to bring the group back to good humor. Alfred had completed his first hunt! The pup buried his face in the disaster that had once been the doe’s neck, then hopped up again, gold fur plastered with crimson. He pranced around the carcass, baying joyfully, until Francis halted him. With all eyes on him, the king tipped back his muzzle and let a high, tapered song of celebration curl toward the moon. Gilbert joined in, his own howl deeper than Francis’s but no less delighted. Alfred, the boy quivering with the force of his wagging tail, threw his little snout back and added an ecstatic falsetto to the mix.

And, last and feeling pretty least, Antonio let out a howl that sounded completely fake to his ears. A wolf’s song should have come from the soul, but if he had let his feelings pour out, the song that echoed through the kingdom would have made every citizen of Western Eurasia clutch their chest in sympathy for his cracked and twisted heart.

 

. . .

 

Lovino rubbed a circle onto the glass of the window for the hundred-thousandth time. As he’d predicted, the honeymoon period was well and truly over. He was not allowed to laze around Antonio’s house and rely on the king’s servants to do the housework. He did all of it, and he did it well, damn it. He learned how to prepare Spanish meals, and he made them without so much as spitting in the bowl. He gave Antonio no reason to be angry, no reason to hit him. This made the sex less rough in the nights, but Lovino didn’t think anything could make it stop. What Alpha wouldn’t like to empty his balls into an Omega every night? Well, not technically _into_ Lovino. After the drunken wedding night, Antonio always pulled on a piece of sheepsgut, which was pretty disgusting to Lovino, thought admittedly less disgusting than the thought of getting pregnant with the bastard’s baby. He hadn’t let himself consider what he would do if that happened. How could he raise that baby? More importantly, how could he love it? The idea of his stomach stretching, breasts bulging with milk—it was absolutely disgusting, not to mention humiliating. But that was a problem in itself. _Omegas shouldn’t think that being a mother is gross. What the hell is wrong with me?_

Lovino heaved an exhausted sigh and looked at his reflection in the window, pale against the darkness of the night outside. He wished his brother was here. He wished he didn’t have those dark smudges under his eyes. He wished he could snuggle up with his grandfather again. He wished—

Arthur’s face appeared on the other side of the glass.

Lovino scrambled backward, heart hammering. Then he surged forward again. “What the hell are you—”

Arthur’s eyes widened and he put a finger to his lips, urging Lovino to be hushed. The Italian fell into begrudging silence. Arthur performed an elaborate gesture that was totally lost on Lovino, so the brunette Omega flipped off the blond. Arthur rolled his eyes and mouthed, _Come round to the door._

Lovino was tempted to ignore it, after their fight months ago, the last time they’d spoken to each other (he’d made excuses to get out of more visits, and Antonio didn’t seem to care, oddly). But Lovino was all alone, damn it, and Arthur was probably tolerable company. And if he was here, at night, it must have been something important. Important enough to break the law; Omegas were not allowed out in the streets after nightfall without an Alpha escort.

Lovino wrenched open the front door, hissing, “What do you want?”

Arthur stepped forward and hugged him.

Lovino stood there, shocked into motionlessness. It took him a second to get his bearings. Arthur’s arms were warm around him, the softness of his body against Lovino’s was comforting, so comforting. But it also stirred an unfamiliar feeling inside him, one that felt at once like a giggle in his chest and a tingle between his legs. Flames rose in his cheeks, and he—gently—pushed the shorter Omega away. “You better start explaining, _britanno_.”

Arthur took a deep breath, eyes filled with countless emotions that cycled too quickly for Lovino to name them. “You were right. I’m so sorry about—just, everything. All of this is so horrible, and you knew it all along, but I . . . I let Francis pull the wool over my eyes, and I just have to apologize to you for saying you were wrong and thinking those things about you—”

“What things?” Lovino cut in, his satisfaction faltering.

Arthur blinked. “Er, well, just assorted insults, really. I was quite cross.”

Lovino crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, you admitted it: I told you so.” But concern nagged through his smugness. “What did the frog do to change your mind like this?”

Arthur’s lips twisted as though he’d tasted something sour. “Let’s just say, your prediction came true.”

A protective anger, the sort he’d only ever felt for his brother until now, made his hands curl into fists. “Did he hurt you?”

Arthur waved it away. “It’s irrelevant. I want us to put the past behind us and move on to a future where things can be different.”

Lovino arched an eyebrow. “Nice speech. You couldn’t wait ’til morning to give it?”

Arthur shook his head. “No. We—well, I need to do something to make things change. I can’t stand by and let this continue to happen.” From his pocket, he took out a rolled-up piece of paper that was ragged along one side. “And I think I found the way to do it. Will you help me, Lovino?” His face was not that of a beggar, wide-eyed and pleading. He simply bared himself to potential rejection in a way that respected and understood whatever verdict he was given. “Will you help me fight for Omega rights?”

Lovino’s first instinct was to fall back on his tried-and-true pessimism. What could two Omegas do against the Alphas of Western Eurasia? But Arthur stood with such bravery and conviction—and had hugged Lovino with such love—that he could not think negatively. Lovino had wanted things to change for years, just as he was sure other Omegas wanted. Who would fight for those dead-eyed servants, worked all day and all night, slaving for Alphas who looked right through them? Who would fight for the Omegas in brothels, intimidated into staying and spreading their legs for whatever Alpha paid for them? Who would fight for Lovino himself?

And there was the answer, the one he had always wanted to be true.

Lovino squared his shoulders and met Arthur’s gaze. “I will.”

A grin flashed across Arthur’s face. Quickly, excited, he said, “I’ve found us a place, outside the city. I’ve been sneaking out for weeks, a little each night. I know where the guards walk, we won’t meet them. Come on, we need to get Feli—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Lovino put a hand on Arthur’s arm to still him. “Why the hell do we need a place outside the city?”

Arthur pulled free. “You’ll see! Come on!” He crouched down, shifted into his bird form. Lovino couldn’t help but stare. The harrier was fiercely beautiful, a predator of the sky, endlessly familiar. It was clear that Arthur was awaiting judgement, but Lovino only knelt before him and let his own bird form take over for the first time in ages. He stared at Arthur, secretly wishing they could be in the sunlight to show off the burning auburn of his feathers—the feathers of a red kite.

Kite and harrier stared at each other with intense, bright eyes. Though they were similar in design, Lovino dwarfed Arthur; his wingspan was a foot longer, over five feet when fully extended. Slowly, both raptors leaned forward until their curved beaks nearly touched, thoughts echoing each other’s in awe: _I thought I was the only one._

Then they took to the skies, Arthur clutching the rolled-up paper in his talons. Being outside at night was bizarre enough, but to soar over the houses and see patrolling guards as toy soldiers below was a feeling Lovino would never tire of. _They can’t hold us down. We’re more free than they’ll ever be!_ Still, he held himself back; Arthur’s wings were shorter, after all.

Suddenly the harrier shot by, dipping under Lovino and pulling up so close his tail feathers brushed Lovino’s beak. He flapped to right himself from the turbulence of the other bird cutting through his thermal. Arthur spared a backward glance, cracking his beak in amusement. Lovino felt his heart swell. _Oh, you’re on._ He flared his tail and veered at Arthur. The moonlight tinted their feathers blue; they swooped around each other like playful phantoms before they at least alighted on the roof of the Beilschmidt house.

Before Lovino could think of a gesture to convey _I’ll go in and get him_ , Arthur was hopping off the roof, wings spread and angled so that he sailed down in an elegant spiral. Lovino felt the natural attraction one would feel to a skilled dancer, the mix of enjoyment and envy at witnessing someone with grace. _He’s so clumsy on two legs, who knew he could do that? He must have been practising._

Mere moments later, three birds flew from the capital. A harrier, leading the way; a kite, lagging slightly to follow; and a plover, tiny wings flapping in quick bursts in an effort to keep up.

None of them had nocturnal eyes, but the full moon gave them enough light to see by. Arthur led them past the fields, farther north than Lovino had ever gone. He’d heard that the streams to the west became a river as they flowed from the north, but he’d never seen it with his own eyes. Willow trees were in abundance here, and Arthur led them straight for the largest one, so top-heavy it had begun to slide into the river and now stood at such an angle that the sweeping branches hung into the water, forming a small pocket of space on the bank, hidden from sight by the squiggly leaves. It was pretty perfect, as far as spaces went. They couldn’t be seen, and they could wash in the river in case their scents mingled. Arthur had obviously put a lot of thought into this. _We’re smarter than Alphas think we are. We have an advantage there._

Once they had landed and turned to their human forms, Feliciano burst with words. “We can’t be outside at night, this is very bad, if anyone finds out they’ll be mad, and oh I didn’t know you were a big bird like Lovi, Arthur, but what are we doing out here?”

Arthur smiled, his excitement palpable, though his tone was serious. “We’re here to discuss the biggest problem in Western Eurasia.”

Feliciano tapped his chin with one finger and wrapped his single curl around another. “Hmmmmm. The price of pasta? Ludwig says that’s a big problem.”

Lovino rolled his eyes. “ _No_. And don’t talk about the potato bastard here.”

His little brother looked from Lovino to Arthur in concern. “Why?”

“We are here,” Arthur said, unfolding his paper, “to talk about the terrible treatment of Omegas from Alphas. We do not have equal rights, and I think we should.”

“I agree,” Lovino added. _Huh. I don’t think I’ve ever said that before. Feels kinda weird._

Feliciano wringed his hands. “But, but—the Book of Naturalism says—”

“Forget about that,” Arthur said firmly. “Hang the book.”

Feli gasped audibly, fingers over his mouth.

Arthur held up the paper. “Listen to this, and tell me you think the Book of Naturalism sounds better.” He cleared his throat and began to read aloud. _“In almost all ancient religions, the Omega was revered. The Great Creator, the Mother of Earth, Anima—all are symbols linked with the Omega, the womb, maternity. These beliefs hold strong in Eastern Eurasia, but have been shunned in the West. The East and West are opposing extremes, whereas in Scandinavia things are truly equal—or, rather, as equal as this unbalanced world can be.”_

Lovino’s mind raced—he’d only ever heard that Scandinavians were perverted or crazy, never that they embraced equality—and he asked, “Who wrote that?”

“Emil Bondevik wrote that,” Arthur replied with relish. “He is the brother of Jarl Lukas Bondevik.”

“Maybe we could write him a letter to tell him how much we like his book,” Feliciano suggested.

Lovino scoffed. “Of course we can’t do that. The Alphas control the post.”

“Oh, right.” Feliciano gave a light frown. “That’s too bad. I liked the Anima part, that sounds pretty. It would be nice for more people to say Omegas are nice, you’re right, Arthur. Maybe we could visit the Jarls in person one day. _Jarl_ , that’s a funny word!”

“The Alphas are in charge of the boats, too,” Lovino said, exasperated, then glanced at Arthur. “Why are you grinning like that?”

Arthur chuckled, but there was a touch of a giggle in it. “We’re not going on a boat, but we are going to pay a visit to the Court of Jarls.” He warmed the Italian brothers with his emerald gaze. “We’re going to fly.”

Lovino couldn’t stifle his terror at the prospect, nor his cry of protest. “But it’s across the ocean!”

“And it’s cold!” Feliciano added, hugging himself as if he could already feel the freezing winds.

Arthur’s smile faded. He regarded them both solemnly. “You don’t have to come. I understand if you’re too afraid. But we’re birds—we were made to fly. And we’re not doing it for us, we’re doing it for every Omega in the West. For Matthew. For your future nestlings, Feli. For all the future generations. We’re doing it so they won’t have to.” He took a deep breath. “So . . . what do you say?”

Lovino didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go.”

“Thank you, Lovi.” Arthur inclined his head gratefully. “And you, Feli?”

The younger Italian bit his lip, torn, then cried, “Oh, I can’t let my brother go without me! I’ll go!” With that, he threw his arms around Lovino, who squirmed and snapped, “We’re not going _now_!”

“No, but soon,” Arthur said. “We’ll just have to determine a good time, when the Alphas aren’t home.”

Somewhere in the forest, a howl went up, and several others—Lovino’s Omega ears couldn’t separate the voices—joined it. _Speak of the devils._ Reminded of his mate, his life, Arthur’s shoulders slumped a little. “They’ve finished their hunt,” he said. “We should get back.”

“Oh, but—” Feliciano put his hand in the air.

Arthur arched a thick eyebrow. “There are only three of us. You don’t have to raise your hand.”

“Oh,” Feli said again. “Oops. Well, I just wanted to say, before we go—we should have a name.”

“We?” Lovino echoed. “What _we_?”

“Our group,” his little brother replied eagerly. “So everyone knows who we are! Like, hmmm, like The Three Omegas Who Don’t Like Naturalism. What about that for a name?”

Arthur gave a slow nod. “That’s . . . a bit long, but the sentiment is in the right place.”

“How about Anti-Alphas?” Lovino suggested, with more acid than he’d intended, but it wasn’t aimed at Arthur or Feli, so he didn’t bother feeling bad about it.

Feliciano pouted. “Oh, but that sounds so mean.”

Lovino opened his mouth to give him an earful, but Arthur lifted a calming hand. “No, Feli is right. We can’t sound hateful. Naturalism is hateful and cruel, and we need to be better than them if we’re going to win. We have to be positive. Put a positive spin on it.”

“The positive version of Anti-Alpha is Pro-Omega,” Feliciano pointed out.

“Promega,” Arthur and Lovino said in unison, and their shared smile was one Lovino would never, ever forget.

Then the trio flew back to the capital, where they went their separate ways. And, the best part of the night, Antonio was so tired from the hunt he fell asleep before he even took off his trousers.

Lovino smiled into the darkness as he drifted off, a hen harrier swooping through his dreams.


	18. Chapter 18

“I have never been more deeply sickened than this day.

Life in the West was once beautiful, and now it has been tainted.

Their savagery knows no bounds, and they excuse it as Natural.

Never again shall I return to what was once my home.

Please accept our request for asylum.

Elizabeta and I have come through unsavory means,

but I implore you to see past this.

We bow to your mercy.”

_—transcript of Roderich Edelstein appearing before the Court of Jarls_

 

Something was wrong with Feli. Ludwig knew, without a doubt, that something was bothering his mate. The Omega was distracted from his chores, often dropping things without noticing or forgetting what Ludwig had just asked him to do. Even worse, when Ludwig nuzzled his forehead, his mate almost looked guilty. Guilty? Was that how he looked? Perhaps Ludwig was just being paranoid, overprotective. But he couldn’t stand the thought of something bothering his little Italian, and one night after dinner he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Feliciano,” Ludwig said, even though he knew the combined full name and deep voice would make the Omega think he was in trouble.

Sure enough, Feli glanced over from drying the dishes, eyes bright with panic. “Yes, sir?”

Ludwig stepped over to him, placing a large but gentle hand on the small of his back. He’d ducked his head to search that beautiful amber gaze. To another Alpha, it would seem like a challenge; to any other Omega, a display of dominance. But from the German to the Italian, it was a gesture born of love.

“Feli,” Ludwig murmured, “is there anything wrong?”

Feliciano opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, like a fish out of water. Ludwig had never thought his soft—perhaps a bit too soft—mate could be capable of such an expression of ambivalence. He obviously had something to tell Ludwig, and _wanted_ to tell him—and yet, he wasn’t telling him.

Ludwig could have punished him for that, a show of disrespect. But he had never punished his mate—not seriously, anyway, nothing harsher than a scolding word—and he had no wish to start. _Besides,_  he thought, _I’m sure whatever it is will come bursting out soon. He’s never been able to keep a secret._ So he just gave his mate a kiss to the cheek and returned to sharpening his blades.

Another day passed, and Feliciano said nothing. Another day, nothing. A week. Nothing! Ludwig had thought he couldn’t stand it before, but now it was troubling him nonstop. All day he thought of the possibilities. They ranged from happy—maybe Feli was pregnant but waiting for a good time to announce it—to heartbreaking—what if some Alpha had attacked him? The thought filled him with enough fury to make him shake. But no, that couldn’t have happened; Ludwig would have smelled the Alpha’s scent on his mate. And Feli would have told him about something that serious. Wouldn’t he?

“What’s wrong with you?” Gilbert asked him one evening, before Ludwig went out on patrol duty. “You worried about something?”

Ludwig looked at his brother sharply. He was glad to be taller, though he would never admit it; Gilbert had enough ego that Ludwig had to be physically larger, just to even the playing field. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because you’ve had that same look on your face every day this week,” Gilbert replied.

“What face is that?”

“The face where you’re trying not to look worried. You want a demonstration? It’s kind of like this.” Gilbert contorted his features into a goofy monstrosity, complete with crossed crimson eyes.

Ludwig knocked his shoulder into his brother’s, smiling lightly as Gilbert’s wild laughter brought him back to childhood, before they trained hard muscles onto their bodies, before Gilbert ever showed that savage look he was so prone to these days. Ludwig wished he had paid more attention to when that look first showed up, so he could try to determine the cause. He wished he had paid as much attention to his brother, over the years, as he had to his mate.

“Anyway,” Gilbert said, clapping Ludwig’s shoulder when it became clear no possible worries were forthcoming, “enjoy your patrol.”

“I will,” Ludwig replied, only partly untruthful. “And you take a break.”

“Insubordination!” Gilbert called, already headed back toward the barracks, where he’d spend the rest of his night. Ludwig had asked him so many times, _Do you ever get lonely?_ And Gilbert always said the same thing. _An Alpha doesn’t need constant company. I don’t need anyone holding my hand._

But wolves were the ones who lived in packs. Ludwig never pointed this out, of course. He didn’t like arguing, least of all with his brother.

Half of the patrol went by without incident, Ludwig walking along the outer streets of the city, where buildings were abandoned more often than not. Renovations tended to be exclusive to the inner city, where people could afford them. Out here, citizens often struggled, and Ludwig had heard from Antonio that more and more folks were begging for mercy from the taxes. He didn’t know if the king would lower them or not. Francis was not obsessed with profit, but he was quite fond of things profit obtained, namely his endless collection of purple clothes.

And right then, as he was reaching the end of an uneventful thought about the king’s wardrobe, he saw a flicker of grey in the corner of his eye. It was up in the air, high-up, tiny from his perspective and very hard to make out against the evening sky, which was blotted with dark rainclouds. But Ludwig was a hunter and a guard, and when his eye caught movement, he followed it. He knew with certainty that he was watching a plover— _his_ plover—fly out of the city and off toward the fields.

Ludwig had left him at home, knitting some socks. And now here he was, outside the house after sunset, flapping off into the distance? Was Ludwig dreaming?

Abruptly, the clouds above opened up and let forth a rain that immediately drenched him. Ludwig pushed the hair back off his forehead. He definitely wasn’t dreaming, and he definitely wasn’t letting Feliciano get away. So he took the rifle from his shoulder, leant it up against crumbling brickwork, and chased after his mate, falling from two feet to the much faster four paws as he did.

Ludwig could have overtaken the plover if he tried, but he didn’t. He needed to remain undetected. _Who would ever have thought I would have to spy on my mate?_ The thought was at first humorous, then sobering. You did not spy on your loved ones, after all. You spied on your enemies.

Feliciano led him to the river, of all places. Ludwig slowed, lowering himself to the ground and creeping forward until he was fairly hidden in the aquatic flora that lined the ribbon of water. He watched as Feliciano vanished from sight, hidden by the boughs of a slanted willow. Then, astonishing, Arthur Bonnefoy stepped out from beneath the willow and stood on the opposite bank, hands on his hips as he watched his fellow law-breaking Omegas fly along the track of the river.

“Fly lower,” he called to them, a hand lifted to his brow to shield his face from the rain. “We have to get used to the water on our feathers. The sea will spray at us, remember. Stay closer to Lovino, Feli; he’ll block the wind from you. We don’t know what the air will be like on the way. The wind could be against us, so do as much flapping as you can. Stretch your wings as far as they’ll go on the downstroke. We need to build as much strength as we can before we leave.”

Ludwig had not moved, but he was reeling. _The sea? Before we leave?_ Bad enough to break the law by being outside after dark. Bad enough for Arthur to speak in such an authoritative, Alpha-like way. Bad enough that they had not even snuck out on a hunt night this time, but instead a night Francis and Antonio had done too much drinking and were currently snoring it off in their respective beds. But this? Talk of leaving? Crossing a sea? It was unheard of! Not for Alphas, sure, but Omegas? Their place was the den, the nest, the home. Why would they ever want or need to leave?

Ludwig watched in motionless silence as the birds practised flight maneuvers. Arthur joined them; he and Lovino were going through the motions of switching lead-bird. Ludwig had never considered before how much easier it was to fly behind someone than to cut through the air yourself. Feliciano didn’t have to worry about this, however. He stayed in the rear throughout the training, and by the end of it Ludwig could see his tiny wings were flapping with less enthusiasm than before. And yet, when Arthur gave an alarmed screech, all three birds winged beneath the willow tree, and Feliciano was just as swift as the bigger birds. Ludwig feared they had discovered him, but a moment later they stepped out again, and Arthur’s congratulations on another good night of training made Ludwig realize it had just been a drill.

 _They’re so smart_ , he thought, with more fear than he liked to feel. _If I hadn’t been patrolling, I never would have caught them._

“Do we know when we’re going yet?” Lovino asked, across the river.

“No,” Arthur replied. “We can’t wait much longer. There’s no way we would make it in the winter.”

Feliciano meekly raised a hand.

“Stop that,” Lovino snapped. “We’re not Alphas. We’re all equal, that’s the idea.”

 _Equal._ What terrifying implications and consequences were carried by a word like that.

“I’m sorry, I forgot again. But . . .” Feli bit his lip. “It’s just that Ludwig was asking me about this, and—”

“What?!” Lovino shrieked.

“You didn’t tell him,” Arthur said, face white as a ghost.

Feliciano threw up his hands. “No, no! Of course not. He’s . . . he’s an Alpha. Yuck.” The other two relaxed visibly, and he went on, “I just mean, he asked if something was wrong with me, and I didn’t know what to say.”

“ _Piss off ugly potato bastard_ would work,” Lovino replied. Ludwig could see why Gilbert hated that Omega so much.

“Lovino,” Arthur said, mildly scolding. He regarded Feliciano and advised, “Tell him it’s just an Omega problem. He won’t know what you mean, but he’ll be too afraid to ask.”

Ludwig resented that, although it was true that Omega problems were left out of his knowledge by his own choice. He’d seen what lay between Feliciano’s legs a few times—beautiful petals, glistening with slick—but the workings of it were a mystery.

Realizing the Omegas were closing their meeting, Ludwig spun around and sprinted back to his post. His fur was plastered to his body when he returned to the city, and his heart was an uncertain creature inside him, but he had a job to do. Whatever this nightmare was, it would have to wait until he got home.

 

. . .

 

Feliciano was in bed when Ludwig got home. They had agreed after a few months of being mated that it was best if Feliciano didn’t wait up for Ludwig. Sometimes he took double shifts for patrols, and he would come home in the dark hours of morning; since Feli was typically a heavy sleeper, Ludwig could come and go without disturbing his mate too much. It didn’t matter tonight, however, because Feliciano couldn’t sleep. Worries, unnameable by the simple fact that he lacked introspection, stung his thoughts like nettles. The more he tried to ease the discomfort, the worse it got. He wished he could do something to make himself feel better, but the only thing that could do it now was to tell Ludwig, and he had been strictly forbidden from doing so. _Oh, Ludwig,_ he thought in despair. _I wish things were different!_

He jumped under the covers when his mate came into the dark bedroom. Ludwig had a candlestick in his hand, blessing his handsome face with a soft orange glow. Feliciano drew comfort from the sight of him, the power in the square of his jaw and the strong line of his nose. He would keep Feliciano safe, no matter what.

Wouldn’t he?

It was a doubt that never would have entered his mind before meeting Arthur, before all this Promega business. The fracture in trust for his mate nearly broke his heart. He blinked back tears in the shadow.

“You’re awake,” Ludwig said, but he still spoke in a low tone as if afraid to rouse someone.

Feliciano sat up in bed, hugged himself, and nodded.

Ludwig set the candlestick down on the beside table and sat on the edge of the mattress, close to Feli but not touching. His blue eyes looked liquid, watery and sorrowful, in the flickering glow. In that same low voice, he said, “I know what you’ve been doing.”

Feliciano’s breathing stopped.

“I followed you tonight,” he went on. “You and Lovino and Arthur are going to leave soon, is that it? Where are you going across the sea? Scandinavia?”

Numbly, dumbly, Feliciano nodded.

Ludwig stared at him, looking weary and solemn but otherwise unreadable. Finally, he said, “I just have one question, Feli.” His voice was different now, unlike Feliciano had never heard it before. It was no longer firm and deep. It sounded thin, almost . . . vulnerable. “I need to know. Do you love me?”

Feliciano’s heart ached beneath his breastbone. Of course he loved Ludwig! With all of himself, his heart and mind and soul. But his friends didn’t want him to love Ludwig, not right now. Not while they didn’t yet have equality. He was an Alpha, a slavemaster, in the Promegas’ eyes. He didn’t deserve to be loved. He and his Naturalism were the enemy. But Feliciano, looking into those beautiful blue eyes, simply did not care about all that. He loved his mate. He wanted his friends to be happy and his future children to be safe, but he was an Omega, and right now his Alpha had to come before those things.

So he scooted closer to the big blond German and let it pour out: “Oh, Ludwig, I love you, I love you more than anything or anybody else, and I know it seems bad with the Arthur and Lovi thing but I don’t think you’re gross, just mean Alphas, but you’re not mean, I love you!”

He would have went on, but Ludwig grasped his chin in one of his huge hands, tilting his face so they could do nothing but stare into each other’s eyes, noses almost brushing.

“You love me,” Ludwig echoed, firm now not with strength but desperation.

“I love you,” Feliciano whispered, tears dripping down onto Ludwig’s fingers.

Without another word, the Alpha pressed his lips to his Omega’s. They kissed, wet with tears and rain. They kissed love into each other, their worry translated into desire, the seeking of carnal comfort, the sharing of warmth. Feliciano’s nails scratched the broad muscles of Ludwig’s back, and Ludwig’s teeth squeezed the delicate flesh of Feliciano’s neck. They had been unfair to each other, and now, as rain abused the walls of the house, all was made right. It was not Natural nor was it what a Promega would have called equal. But Ludwig and Feliciano did not care. For them, for their version of love between Alpha and Omega, it was right.

The next morning, Feliciano awoke to a wet dawn and a note on the mussed sheets. Ludwig’s penmanship was blocky and slanted, but Feliciano could read it.

_If you must go, go today. I wish you could stay, but I understand if you want to fight the battle. Your brother would not believe me, but I do understand. Please be careful. There is a fighting competition with the guards this afternoon. Francis and Antonio will be attending. If I don’t see you before you leave—go well, Feliciano Vargas._

_I love you._

 

. . .

 

Arthur made his farewells brief. He did not want to hesitate; this was what he had to do, and if he questioned himself, he feared he would lose his nerve and never do it. He pressed a kiss to Matthew’s soft hair, squeezing the sweet boy in a hug. Matthew didn’t understand the reason behind this sudden show of affection, but he was never one to turn down a hug. He smiled with those little pink lips and hugged Arthur back with his tiny, chubby arms.

“I love you, Matthew,” Arthur told him. He could never be as close to the boy as Francis or Gilbert, but he still loved the wee sweetheart.

“Love you, Mama,” the nestling replied squeakily, his L still sounding more like a W. Arthur’s heart swelled, and he gave Matthew another tight hug. But this couldn’t sway his decision to go. _I’m leaving for you, Matthew. I’ll bring back a brighter future, I promise._

Unlike Matthew, who had been easily found playing dolls in his room, Alfred was nowhere to be seen. Arthur roamed the halls, calling for him with rising impatience. Francis was gone, off to watch guards beat each other up, and Arthur was ready to be gone as well. Every moment spent lingering felt like another lifetime of abusive Alphas getting away with it. No more.

At last, the golden wolf pup came scampering toward Arthur, who stooped to grab him before he could jump up, a new and alarming habit. Alfred squirmed, nosing toward Arthur’s pockets, eager for treats. Arthur held him at arm’s length, trying to get a better look at his face. What had happened to the baby he once felt such love for? How had he become so jaded with this, his child, his flesh and blood?

 _Perhaps it’s because he’s an Alpha_ , Arthur realized, _and I’ve gotten used to thinking Alphas are daft and horrible._

That wasn’t true. The Alphas of Scandinavia weren’t like that, and his baby wasn’t either. He could be raised to be a gentleman, an Alpha who valued Omegas just as much as he valued Alphas. He was just a baby now. It wasn’t his fault he was obnoxious and hyperactive, he just didn’t know any better.

Arthur cradled Alfred in his arms. Recognizing the familiar position, the pup he let his human form take over. It was slower, for young ones, a bit shuddery, not the smooth ripple of the adult transformation. Huge blue eyes gazed up at Arthur from that round, chipmunk-cheeked face.

“I love you, Alfred,” Arthur murmured, and lifted him to kiss his forehead, his cheeks, and finally his tiny nose. “I’ll be back soon.”

Alfred smiled up at him. He could understand what _I’ll be back_ meant, but he could not comprehend the length of time this would take. His mother would be gone, and then he would be back, just like always. Alfred stuck out his pink tongue between the gap in his teeth.

And, even though Arthur was in a very serious and politically revolutionary mood, he returned the smile and stuck his tongue out as well, and the baby’s giggle drove itself straight into his heart, where it would harden and serve as armor for when he felt at his weakest.

 

. . .

 

Arthur felt at his weakest.

The flight had begun on a high note. They had hurried through the streets, giddy with their secret enterprise. Flying away from all they knew was at once sad and liberating, heady emotions they expressed by singing. Well, it was not strictly singing. Arthur and Lovino were screeching. Feliciano was chirping; at least he had some pleasant vocabulary. It was not intended to be musical, however. It was akin to a wolf howling, at once an outpouring of emotion and the sending of a message. It said, _We are leaving, we are freeing ourselves, we are us._

They were tired by the time the reached the coast, so Arthur and Lovino caught a pair of mice while Feliciano pecked about for insects. Then the three of them perched on a large rock, gazing out at the glimmering sea. It was beautiful, the deepest blue beneath a cheery, puffy-clouded sky. It was an excellent day to do it. If they sat and considered the enormity of the task, they would be paralyzed by terror. Arthur knew this, so without further ado, he spread his wings and lifted into the air. Lovino flew behind him, and Feliciano in turn behind him. A tiny trio of triad travelers. Pilgrims. Rebels.

Heroes. For some reason, the word made Arthur think of Alfred. Perhaps one day his young prince would become a hero. Privately, Arthur hoped he wouldn’t. He hoped his son would never need to become a hero. He wanted happiness and safety to come from this. Perhaps he was being too optimistic, but surely they had some hope, if their journey was lit with such a happy sun?

Arthur was no longer judging their odds of success based on the weather. They were battered by hideous winds now, and it was raining, or perhaps the sea was bleeding at them, but either way the water was freezing cold and cut straight through their feathers. The sky overhead was the exact same infected grey as the choppy waves below. The wind, as Arthur feared, was not working with them. If anything, it felt like it was coming from all sides; the ocean seemed to be trying to suck them down. Arthur wished he could land, get the water out of his eyes, but that was impossible. They had crossed the point of no return long ago. If their strength ran out before the journey did, they would drown in this ugly, damned sea.

Arthur parted his beak and gave a piercing shriek, to be heard over the roaring wind and hissing water. Behind him, Lovino reported back as he had every time Arthur checked on him with a loud, metallic screech. Arthur listened for Feliciano’s response.

Nothing.

Arthur looked over his shoulder, and his heart stopped. Lovino was no longer there. Arthur flapped wildly, trying to turn around without falling or somersaulting. Where were they? What had happened? Arthur dove a few feet, then flared his wings; cold air tore at them, and he screamed again, from both fear and the agony of his exhausted muscles. He saw nothing but grey, grey, grey. What if they were dead? What if they were alright, and thinking he was dead? How would they know? What had he done to them?

Arthur heard a cow moo.

 _I’m going mad. I’ve lost my mind. Have I already drowned?_ There was absolutely no way he had heard a cow make any sound at all out here. There were no cows. There were no trees. No grass. No Italian brothers. No one except Arthur.

Until a white-and-black blur flew past him, then circled around and flew at him with shocking agility for a bird so stocky. Its bright, oddly large orange beak parted, and a sound not unlike the moo of a cow escaped. Then the beak snapped twice, and the strange bird gave a little wriggle, and then it was flying off, its wings blurring at its sides. Arthur could do nothing but follow. This bird was black against grey. His final hope.

The miracle of shoreline came just as Arthur’s wings gave out. They could flap no more; he collapsed onto a layer of pebbles repeatedly wetted by a salty spray. He couldn’t care less about being wet at this point. This was land. This was Scandinavia! He had made it!

But how could he celebrate when his friends were . . . Darkness loomed. How could he . . . How . . .

Somewhere, he heard a low, oddly-accented voice say, “Take the little one, Emil. I have the others.”

Then he was lifted up, up, up and he thought he saw the flash of a kite’s auburn feather dropping to the pebbles. Then he sank down into darkness, and all was nothing, a welcomed rest.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY!!! I have excuses but who cares, here it is! Hope you enjoy! :D

“LOST—Two Omegas.

1, sixteen years, M, Brown hair, Brown eyes.

2, twenty-one years, M, Blond hair, Green eyes.

If found, to be returned IMMEDIATELY to the Royal Guard.

Reward only for the Blond.”

_—notice circulating Western Eurasia_

 

“HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?!”

Francis looked up from where he sat in the grand hall, head heavy in his hands. They’d had his chair brought in from a sitting room for this hour of despair. A shame, he thought now, that he didn’t have a throne after all. How kingly and delicately pained he would look, suffering through this tragedy that none of his subjects yet knew about—apart from the audience of Gilbert, Antonio, and Ludwig.

Gilbert was pacing like a caged beast, jaw working furiously. “How— _how_? They’re Omegas, for god’s sake!”

Antonio rubbed one of his arms, looking downward. “Lovino always was strong-willed. I thought I had tamed him, but . . .” He glanced up with a helpless shrug.

Gilbert pointed at him, teeth flashing, a bit sharper than they ought to be in human form. “Because you were too soft. That’s how this happened. What can we expect to happen to Omegas if we don’t treat them like they’re supposed to be treated?”

Genuine anger flared in the Spaniard’s hazel gaze. “Three Omegas flew away because I’m _soft_? I’m flattered that you think I have that much power.”

Gilbert stepped closer, so they were only inches apart, glaring into each other’s eyes. The German’s voice dipped low, much more dangerous than a shout. “Maybe it doesn’t take power. Maybe all it takes is giving three impressionable Omegas the idea to go North.”

Antonio’s eyes widened, and something snapped inside them. “Are you calling me some kind of traitor?” He let a growl edge the words, just loud enough to be unmistakable as aggression.

The growl and the meeting of eyes were an evil mix. In fact, they were all it took for Gilbert to lose it; he tore into his wolf form like a cloth ripped in half and sent Antonio slamming to the floor. The brown wolf was up in the next second, snarling, and the two rolled in a snapping whirlwind until Francis could take it no longer and stood up. “ _Arrête_!”

Antonio immediately ceased, but Gilbert only used it as his advantage and pinned his unsuspecting opponent. Silver paws crushed down on Antonio’s flank as Gilbert clamped the smaller male’s muzzle firmly between his jaws. The captain had his tail high in the air, his ears pricked forward, and his growl was loud enough that everyone knew without a doubt: he was dominant.

Francis stomped his foot, his shoe surprisingly loud on the polished floor. “I said STOP!”

This was more of a scream than a shout. Gilbert backed away from Antonio, and both stood up as men, Gilbert’s head lowered a little and Antonio dabbing at the teeth marks across the lower half of his face.

Francis stepped to his advisor first, concern outweighing his anger. “Are you alright, _mon ami_?”

The Spaniard winced through a painful smile. The bite stung, but it was not deep enough to scar. “I’ll live.”

Francis nodded reassuringly—as reassuring as one could be, with all this going on—before he turned to Gilbert. “How dare you attack him! A friend! Have you no control?”

Crimson eyes narrowed a tiny amount. “There’s a reason we don’t tell Omegas about the East or the North. Your great-grandfather understood that, and things have run smoothly since he was High Alpha.” His gaze shifted to Antonio. “Until now.”

Francis shook his head. “This”—he waved a hand to indicate the situation—“is no reason to hurt each other. Just because a system works doesn’t mean it can’t be improved. Changed for the better.” He took a deep breath. _If my mate has this much courage, surely I can summon some, too._ “I think the Omegas may have the right idea, if an unfortunate execution of it.” He remembered the night Arthur had denied him sex, the night he had acted as an Alpha should, punishing him for disrespect. It still made his heart ache with remorse, something he never would have felt for his first mate, nor for the dull-eyed servants. They were a completely different species than Arthur, or Lovino. Why was that? Perhaps the servants were once bright and eager, like Feliciano? And a lack of love and support had sent them into a depression? _Oh, god._ It was so plausible, it sickened him. How had he never thought about it until now? How had he just allowed it to happen? He was just as dim as the servants. He just accepted things as they were. _But Arthur didn’t._ Francis knew now. He knew, and it was terrifying, but it was the truth, his truth: “I think it’s time for change.”

Antonio perked up, and Ludwig’s brow lifted with curiosity. Their reactions eased Francis’s anxiety, until he saw Gilbert’s face. The captain was staring at him as if he’d just sprouted a second head. _He’s just overreacting_ , Francis imagined Antonio saying in an effort to comfort him. _Don’t base your feelings off one person’s differing opinion._ But what about when the person was his other best friend?

“Maybe it’s time we listened to our Omegas as much as they listen to us,” Francis went on. “Would that be so bad? It’s the way the Scandinavians have lived for centuries. They have no laws against Alphas and Alphas mating, or Omegas and Omegas. They have no Deformity there. No Naturalism. Do we really need these things? Wouldn’t everyone be happier without them?” Francis’s voice rose now, making him cringe; he sounded hysterical. “What would be so wrong with a bit of equality?”

Now Gilbert’s incredulous stare hardened. His lips curled in disgust. “It seems Carriedo isn’t the only soft Alpha among us. You’re soft in the head, Bonnefoy. It’s a good thing you have a son now. You’ve gone past your prime. Your place needs to be taken.”

Francis felt the world fall away from him. He must have heard his friend wrong; his ears were ringing. Thinly, he choked out, “What—what did you say?”

Gilbert squared his shoulders and quoted, “ _Any man who cannot inhabit his rightful roles and states of being must be considered Deformed._ ” He shook his head almost with pity. “I don’t _want_ to do this, but I have to, Francis. It’s my job to ensure this city is safe, and its leader is healthy. You’re not healthy anymore. You’re out of your mind. We can’t have a king who talks nonsense like that. We can’t have a Deformed High Alpha.”

Francis was not in a state to notice, but Ludwig and Antonio could both clearly see that Gilbert had the look—that same wild look he had as a wolf. In fact, if they looked close enough, they would see that his pupils could not dilate as a human’s should have, that his eyes were now fixed as a wolf’s, emotionless and predatory. Neither Ludwig nor Antonio said a word about this concerning turn of events; both recognized it as unwise, and held their tongues.

“Get out of here,” Gilbert ordered with easy authority. The kingdom was an apple, and if the core was rotting, he would not hesitate to carve it out. “Leave the city if you want. I suspect things will be getting messy in the coming days.” He flicked an indifferent hand at Antonio. “You might as well go with him. You won’t be needed here.”

Francis could not see anything past his gathering tears and rising anxiety, but Antonio looked to Ludwig, who gave a slight nod. This was a nod that said, _Go. I’ll take care of this. Trust me._

Antonio had no other choice. What could he do, fight Gilbert? Would Ludwig be able to bring himself to hurt his brother in order to help Antonio? And what if Gilbert overpowered them both? He hadn’t been given his position of captain like Francis was born to be king; he had fought his way to the top and had the scars to prove it. Ludwig was strong, yes, but strong enough? _It isn’t about strength_ , Antonio realized. _Ludwig has honor. Gilbert doesn’t._ Staring at the silver-haired, crimson-eyed man now, Antonio could not remember how he had once called him a friend.

Francis whimpered through a burning sob, face again in his hands. Antonio put an arm around his weeping king and led him gently down the many steps of the castle. Antonio didn’t need to be told that Francis couldn’t leave this city. Where would he go? A village? This was the finest place in the kingdom, he could not live anywhere else. This was his home, and if he could not sleep under his own roof, the next best thing would always be his best friend’s roof. And that was how they came to be lying on Antonio’s bed, Francis sobbing and gasping as Antonio stroked his back, whispering, “ _Respirer_ , Francis. _Respirer_.”

It took several minutes, but the French Alpha calmed enough to croak, “H-how c-could this happen?”

Antonio shook his head. _There is something wrong with Gilbert, something warped and wicked within him._ But that was not what Francis wanted to hear, so Antonio replied, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know.”

The fallen king curled into his friend, burying his face in the other man’s chest. Antonio held his breath and slowly moved his arms around Francis’s waist, holding him close. Within minutes, exhausted by the attack, Francis had fallen asleep. Antonio breathed out a long sigh. _If there’s any bright side, it’s that I get to do this_. At long last, after dreaming of it so many times, Antonio pressed a kiss to the top of Francis Bonnefoy’s head, and wished only that it could have been his lips instead.

 

. . .

 

Lovino woke up tasting salt.

He groaned, rubbing his eyes with warm fingers. His throat burned. He felt like he had been dragged along the bottom of the ocean—by his arms. When they flexed, his biceps burned even worse than his throat. What a terrible way to wake up. He didn’t want to do chores for the damn Spaniard today. He wanted to go back to sleep for another few days. He opened his eyes—and stared. He was in a large room with white-and-blue walls; looking closer, he saw that the white was painted with swirling blue branches and leaves and flowers. He’d never seen something so intricate just casually painted on the wall. This would be a framed painting back home, if the snobs could get past how outlandish it was.

 _This is Scandinavia_. So far, the north had made a good impression, albeit a cold one during the flight across the sea. Lovino’s bed was comfy, his blankets were a bit scratchy but very warm, and the walls were pretty. Lovino sat up and stretched out his aching arms, and was surprised to see a bed on either side of his. Both sleepers had the blankets pulled up to their ears, but Lovino recognized the wheat-blond hair on one pillow and the brunette on the other. Lovino’s heart was, for the first time in a long time, at ease. They had done what they set out to do. They had achieved their goal. Lovino didn’t know if he’d ever _set_ a goal, let alone achieved one. Arthur had done this, Lovino realized. He was behind this. The country Omega he once thought was just a clueless skeleton had just led them across the north sea.

But the plan hadn’t been hitchless. Lovino remembered the horror of watching Feliciano plummet toward the grey waves; the dive Lovino threw himself into nearly drowned them both. He’d crashed on the shore, only saving his brother from being squished by tossing him out of his talons. It had been such a relief to touch down, even if it was violent, that Lovino blacked out moments later. Still, he vaguely remembered being lifted up by strong arms, carried against a broad chest. Their savior, presumably one of those fabled _nice Alphas_ that Scandinavia apparently had in abundance. Lovino twirled his solitary curl around his finger, a habit he’d gotten rid of years ago because a pup had once called it _cute_ . He looked to the blond hair again, watched the blankets go taut, then slacken again as the English Omega breathed. _This is your journey, Arthur. What do we do now?_

Footsteps outside the door, then a knock. A man with ashen blond hair—Lovino was reminded of Gilbert, quite unflattering for this stranger—peeked through the gap. In an odd accent, he said, “Awake, are you?”

Lovino glanced at his friends, still sleeping soundly, then back to the stranger. “I am.”

“The other two likely won’t be awake for a while yet. Especially the plover. He was the worst for wear.” The stranger seemed to grow tired of peeking in and opted for opening the door all the way and standing with crossed arms in the doorway. His shoulders were pushed back and he spoke with an air of authority, and his brown coat looked to be made of fine material—a detail offset by the haphazard tails of his white shirt, which hung untucked from his trousers. He had gloves on, as well, _white_ gloves. Lovino had never seen someone dressed so peculiarly, apart from maybe the king.

Lovino had a moment of epiphany. “Are you a jarl?”

Blue eyes narrowed slightly. There was some resentment there, but it was old enough to be smoothed down by resignation. “Not officially, but I contribute often when the Court convenes, and I give counsel to my brother.”

 _Brother_. “You’re Emil Bondevik.”

He inclined his head a fraction. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. . . .”

Lovino couldn’t believe he had just been addressed as Mister, as if he was an Alpha, as if he mattered. He actually smiled a little as he replied, “Vargas. Lovino Vargas.”

Emil’s expression didn’t change very much—blank stare seemed to be his default, though it was definitely more alert than the servants of the West—as he said, “Well, Lovino Vargas, you’ve come a long way. What is the purpose of your visit?”

He almost snorted at _visit_ (as if they’d come to admire the scenery) but he figured Arthur would want him on his best behavior. “We came to see the Court of Jarls.” It was pretty anticlimactic, Lovino had to say. He’d imagined them flying straight to some big castle, landing in front of a row of thrones, and Arthur announcing, crisp and clear, their noble quest. Doing it to a Jarl’s brother in bed somehow didn’t have the same effect.

If Emil was surprised, he didn’t show it. He just nodded and said, “You will have to wait until this evening. Jarl Berwald and his mate had to go north for a funeral. Berwald’s _onkel_ passed on, and he wished to be present for the burning.”

Imagine crossing the sea to a land known as the north, and hearing of men going north _in the north_. Lovino didn’t want to know how cold it got up there. But it was the mention of fire that truly caught his attention. “Burning?”

“Our dead are burned in pyres, so that their souls may be freed.” Was Lovino imagining things, or did Emil sound wistful?

“Wow,” he replied, genuinely impressed. “We just bury people when they die back home. Unless they’re sick, then they get burned first so everybody else doesn’t catch the plague.”

Emil raised a pale eyebrow very slightly. “The luxury of soft ground.”

“Oh.” _That makes sense._ “I didn’t think of that.”

The Scandinavian looked vaguely amused. “Any more questions?”

Lovino felt his cheeks warm. He hadn’t considered that the other might have things to do, aside from entertain a guest. Surprisingly, his embarrassment wasn’t accompanied by the usual rush of anger, as though his very blood cells were tainted with fury. Instead, he just felt a little sheepish, but the light feeling remained inside him, like the gentle morning sunlight was coming through the window and into his heart, or head, or both.

“I have three more questions,” Lovino said stoutly. He had the right to speak here, and damned if he wasn’t going to take advantage of it.

Emil crossed his arms over his chest, though not in a particularly negative way. “Go on, then.”

The first question was one that would never need posing in Western Eurasia. “Are you an Alpha or an Omega?”

Emil’s eyes actually widened a little, then resumed their hooded stare with a shake of his head. “On occasion I forget how important such things are to Eurasians. I would advise against asking the question so outright here. People may take it differently than you intend them to. But, I suppose every question deserves an answer. I am an Omega, physically.”

 _Physically?_ Lovino wanted to ask about that with every fiber of his being, but he had two questions left, and this Scandinavian was too strange to talk to for extended periods. _At least he’s not annoying. Or a bastard._

“Where are we right now?” Lovino asked.

“An inn. Westerners once stayed here very often, but your people don’t come like they used to.” A faint scoff. “Jarl Mathias has made it quite clear that their beliefs are unwelcome here.”

Lovino liked the sound of this Mathias. The inn was a bit worrying, since they hadn’t brought any money, but he decided not to mention that. He was more concerned with his third and final question. “What’s for breakfast?”

At long last, Emil offered the ghost of a smile. “Come. I’ll show you.”

Lovino got out of bed—his biceps swore at him in Italian—and made the bed without thinking. His movements were efficient, automatic. A bed was unmade, and so he made it.

“You don’t have to do those things,” Emil said. Lovino glanced up; the other Omega’s gaze had softened considerably. “No one is giving orders. There are paid workers who will do chores like that.”

Paid workers. Lovino tried to imagine doing a job because he had chosen it, and being paid to do it. Wages. Buying his own home to live in. Maybe he and Arthur could find some place to live together. _Oh, and Feli, too. He can have the attic._ A household with no Alphas. Even though he was indoors, every breath Lovino took felt like fresh air.

Lovino gave his companions a glance of farewell (both were still asleep) before following Emil out of the room, down a staircase. Delicious smells of cooking meat and bread—wholesome scents, without the spice Lovino was accustomed to—surrounded him, along with a welcomed gust of warmth from a crackling fire in a massive hearth. Even though there were a few people in the room and they had all turned to stare curiously, Lovino didn’t look away, nor did he stop his lips from curving upward. _I think I could get used to this place._

 

. . .

 

Arthur woke up expecting to be half-dead on the stone beach, so he was pleasantly surprised to find himself tucked into a warm bed, with the pain in his arms only partly killing him. He did his best to ignore the pulled muscles as he sat up and took in his surroundings, noting the beautiful walls and the trio of beds. He was far from an expert on Scandinavian interior design, but he doubted a house would have a room with three single beds in it; this must have been some sort of inn. He could hear muffled talking and laughter below. _Hopefully someone who can point us to the Court._ He got out of bed and left the blanket thrown aside; his life at the king’s castle had made his housekeeping instincts few and specific. The bed beside his was empty; the furthest one held Feliciano. Arthur gently moved the blanket down enough to inspect the young Omega’s sleeping face. He was pale, but when Arthur touched his forehead, it was burning hot, and yet he could feel Feliciano shivering in his sleep.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Arthur turned quickly at the voice; a pale-haired man stood in the doorway. _A Scandinavian!_ Arthur tried not to be flustered by the exoticity of the stranger. “Ah—yes. Good morning.” He let a light hand rest on Feliciano’s damp hair. “I think my friend may be ill.”

The other man didn’t move, nor did he look particularly concerned. “Yes, he has a fever. We expected all three of you to become sick, after flying through a storm like that. You’re very lucky our Alphas heard your screeching, or I wouldn’t have been able to find and guide you.”

“You were the—?”

“Puffin,” supplied the stranger. “Yes.” He offered a white-gloved hand. “Emil Bondevik. At your service.”

Arthur had several tiny heart attacks as he shook the hand. “Emil! I—thank you so much for saving us! You’re the reason we came here, or one of the reasons, I suppose. But you’re the main reason! It was your writings that inspired me to do this. Your words about how Alphas and Omegas are all free and should live in equality, that’s our belief, too. Our group—well, there’s only three of us, but I think we could have more—is called the Promegas, and we’ve come to ask for help to fight for Omega rights in Western Eurasia.”

It was too subtle to notice at first. Slowly but surely, Emil’s face lit up, his eyes sparkled, his lips spread wide in a grin, and he said, voice thin with disbelief, “You flew all this way because of me?”

Arthur nodded, returning the smile. “Yes. You gave me so much hope, and courage. Life in the West is terrible for Omegas, and I want to do whatever I can to change it.”

Emil shook his head slowly in amazement. “We’ve been waiting for an Omega like you to come along.” He turned away abruptly. “Come. Your other friend is downstairs, eating. Don’t worry about the one on the bed; we’re attending to him.”

Arthur was reluctant to leave Feli by himself, but if he didn’t trust Emil Bondevik, this journey was for naught. So he tugged the blanket back up to the Italian’s ears, gave him a gentle pat of farewell, and followed after his Scandinavian guide.

Downstairs was much warmer than upstairs. Simple wooden tables with benches instead of chairs lined the walls lengthways, but these held only thick candles in their centers. The people here were clustered around the counter at the far end of the long room, where Lovino was sitting not on a stool but on the counter itself, hands raised in the air and gesturing wildly as he spoke to his enraptured crowd.

“. . . and he was falling! If I’d waited another second, he would’ve been in the water and I never would have been able to save him. I didn’t even think about it, I just dove down and grabbed him in my talons.”

The small audience gave a low sound of wonder, a collective _Woooow._

“I didn’t think Eurasians could be that brave,” remarked a thick-accented older man with a goblet in his hand.

“Of course we can,” Lovino retorted. “Omegas are always brave. It’s the Alphas in Eurasia who have their tails between their legs.”

Even though they were in mixed company, everyone shared a laugh at Alphas’ expense. Arthur nearly felt bad for Francis, until he remembered what his mate had done to him. But had Francis done the terrible thing because he was an Alpha, or because Francis genuinely wanted Arthur to suffer? Perhaps it was not the act that was important, but the motivation behind it. Could something like that be forgiven, if it was done with—well, not good intentions, but misguided ones?

Lovino brightened when Arthur approached. “You’re awake, _britanno_!” He lifted a metal cup. “Have some ale. It’s weird stuff, but it doesn’t taste too bad.”

The crowd’s attention shifted to Arthur, who tried not to shrink under their gazes. This was different than everyone staring for his wedding. They knew who he was for that occasion; they knew he was important. Now, he was a stranger, taken at face value. Arthur made an effort to square his shoulders, but still mumbled, “Um, excuse me, thank you, sorry—” as he slipped past the Scandinavians to stand beside Lovino. He almost wished he could speak Italian, so they wouldn’t know what they were saying to each other. “Are you alright, Lovino?”

“Alright? Of course I’m alright.” He hopped down off the counter, but even standing beside Arthur he seemed much taller, despite the real size difference being only a few inches. “Yeah, my arms are a little sore, but other than that I’m fine. Are you?”

“Yes, I . . . I’m quite well. Feliciano has a fever, but—”

“Emil said they’re helping him.” Lovino finished what was left of his drink and, chin lifted, looked over at Emil. “We’re heading out. Did you say to be back at dark or before?”

“When the sun starts to fall,” Emil replied. “I’ll be here to escort you to the Court.”

Lovino nodded. “Alright. Sorry, folks, storytime is over.” He took Arthur’s hand and lead the English Omega to a door that Arthur hadn’t even noticed. Doors in the West were—with the exception of those in villages—elaborately carved with lines, squares and rectangles and royal designs at the castle. This was simply a slab of wood with a handle, but it looked hardy. It might not be beautiful, but it served its purpose elegantly. Thick coats hung from pegs beside the door, and Lovino took down two, handing one to Arthur. The coat went down nearly to his knees; his hands were hidden by too-long sleeves. The wool and fur wasn’t fancy by any means, nor was it perfumed like the clothes Arthur wore at the castle, but they were thick and Arthur was immediately too hot once he put it on; all his heat was trapped and reflected back at him.

Lovino wasn’t waiting; he took Arthur’s hand again and led him outside. The air on his face was a shock, not so much the temperature but the aliveness of it. It was constantly there, moving against his cheeks, creeping under his collar, looking for any way in to steal his warmth. A confirmation of the different way of life; simply surviving here was more difficult than in Eurasia. One could freeze to death in any winter, but here the danger was difficult to forget. Arthur hugged his arms around himself, snuggling into his coat like a tortoise into its shell.

As Arthur followed Lovino down cobbled streets—smiling shyly at the occasional curious passerby—he marveled at two things simultaneously. One, the simple fact that they were currently in Scandinavia’s capital, walking past frosty windows of shops with writing Arthur couldn’t read. There were shingles hanging from some; he recognized the anvil of a blacksmith and what he was fairly certain was a loaf of bread for a baker. Everything here was weathered, wood grey and cracked, paint bleached and chipped. And yet many of the buildings they passed contained laughter and even music; Arthur heard a cheerful lute, then a celebratory drumbeat. How could a place so bleak have such happy people? And how could a sunny place like the West have such misery?

The other thing that amazed Arthur was the transformation of Lovino. His intensity, once expressed through anger or brooding, was now coming out as confidence. He strutted with his head held high. And why shouldn’t he? He’d traveled across a bloody ocean on a whim and a prayer and made it out unscathed— _and_ he’d single-handedly saved his little brother from certain death, if the story he was telling was any indicator of the events Arthur had missed. Arthur felt a rush of pride and happiness so fierce he stopped walking, tugging Lovino back a bit, and wrapped him up in a hug.

Lovino stiffened only a little, then returned the hug in earnest, squeezing Arthur tight. His words were a whisper, a tiny white cloud in the air. “I can’t believe we’re actually here. It feels like a dream. I’m—I think I’m actually happy.”

Arthur felt something bubbly in his stomach that was probably giddiness, but a bit of something less emotional, too. “I’m very, very glad to hear that, Lovi. But I have bad news.” He pulled back enough to look up at the other Omega. “We left before I could get breakfast.”

Lovino blinked, then a little gasp of laughter escaped him, and the pair of them fell about in laughter, taking a wonderful moment to be frivolous, blissfully oblivious of the strangers staring at them from windows or the other side of the street. “Oops,” Lovino said eventually, half-composed. “Well, Emil gave me some gold.” He reached beneath his coat and showed Arthur some small, gleaming coins. “Let’s find something to eat. We have all day to waste, because the Court won’t be ready to meet us until this evening,”

“Oh. Okay. Well, then. Let’s explore,” Arthur said, and—though he knew it was a sign of courting—he held onto Lovino’s arm instead of his hand.

The Italian Omega looked at him, an inquiring light in his beautiful brown eyes, eyes that reminded Arthur of the warmth of their home. Arthur didn’t know what the silent question was. There were many possibilities. _What about Francis and Antonio?_ was probably one. _Why are you holding my arm?_ might have been one. _Are you flirting with me?_

That gave Arthur a bit of pause. _Was_ he flirting? Was he still Francis’s mate, after all of this? His wife, probably, but his mate? Did he still love Francis Bonnefoy?

_Did I ever?_

Lovino interrupted the tormented reverie before Arthur could find a proper answer to any of his questions. “ _Sì_ _, britanno,_ ” he said, with a smile at once familiar and foreign; Arthur had seen it on the lips of others, but never Lovino. The younger Omega looked undeniably fond. Arthur returned the smile with relief, and they began to explore.

For hours, they wandered up and down wide main roads and narrow side streets, buying honeyed bread and strange but tasty cookies that seemed to be called _peh-air-noo-ah_ (Arthur asked the baker to translate, but she just gave a sorry-can’t-help-you shrug). The cobbles here were not as orderly and maintained as the ones in Francis’s beloved city, and Arthur tripped over three stray stones before Lovino finally had to laugh. “Good thing you have me to hold you up. Trust you to make it to Scandinavia and hurt yourself tripping over a rock.”

“Oh, sod off, you,” Arthur snapped, without heat. Lovino’s hard but lovely laugh was muffled by a very distinctive shout: _“I DON’T CARE IF THIS WAS THE ONLY PLACE TO GO! IT IS HOPELESS HERE! JUST HOPELESS!”_

Arthur and Lovino shared glances with raised eyebrows, then turned around to look toward the sound. They had come to the edge of the city, where there were some farmhouses and rows of only the hardiest plants that could survive up here. There were a few thick-furred oxen as well, grazing on tough grass. Past these houses, however, atop a little slope was a tall, narrow house with red shutters. It looked so peaceful on the outside, but there was no doubt that the shouting was coming from here, the first negative word either of them had heard in Scandinavia. And, most curious of all, the words were not said in a Nordic accent, but a peculiarly Germanic one.

The pair of Promegas went to the door without need of discussion, and Arthur lifted a hand (and pulled back his sleeve) to knock on the door.

To their surprise, it opened immediately, and a woman stood looking at them with eyes almost as green as Arthur’s. Concerned, she asked, “Um, yes? Can I help you?” Behind her, the same voice that had yelled was saying, “Who could possibly be coming to _our_ door?”

Seeing her wince wearily, Arthur asked, “Is everything alright? We heard the shouting . . .”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman said hastily. “He doesn’t mean to be a bother, really, it’s just that he’s . . . frustrated.”

“He wasn’t bothering us,” Arthur told her. “We just wanted to see if there was anything we could do to help.”

She looked to be about to say no, but then something came to her and she said, “Actually, you could come in. We haven’t had company in so long . . . and you two look very interesting.” She leaned closer. “You’re from the West, aren’t you?”

They both nodded.

A mixture of pain and delight gleamed in her eyes. “Then, by all means.” She stepped to the side, gesturing welcomingly. “Please come in.”

Arthur and Lovino exchanged another glance. Lovino’s gave a strong _I don’t know about this_ argument, but Arthur’s _why not?_ won out, and they stepped inside. The woman introduced herself as Elizabeta as she removed their coats. “I’ll hang these up for you,” she said. “My mate is just through there, in the drawing room. He’ll be glad to talk to someone from home.” With that, she disappeared into a different room off the hall.

The house was a tiny pocket of familiarity. The tables had doilies, the curtains had lace, the doors were carved; nothing had the rustic, functionalist style—or lack thereof—of the other Scandinavian abodes. Everything was elegant (though not to the overdone degree of Francis’s castle) and culminated in the most elegant-looking man Arthur had ever seen, lounging with crossed legs on a gilt fainting couch. The man wore a navy coat and a poofy white thing about his neck that Arthur knew had a name, though he couldn’t have said what that name was.

The man had two white fingertips to his temple, and he did not shift from his world-weary pose as he regarded his visitors. “Who are you?”

“Arthur B—” He didn’t stop himself long enough for it to seem awkward. _It shouldn’t be. I don’t need his name. I have my own._ “Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland.”

The man seemed unimpressed with this information; his violet eyes slid to Lovino. “And you?”

“Lovino Vargas,” replied Lovino, not too taken with the conversation himself.

They looked at each other expectantly, until Arthur finally prompted, “And what might your name be?”

“Roderich Edelstein,” the man replied, closing his eyes to sigh. “There was a time when you would know it without needing to ask.”

He didn’t look very old, but then again, the visitors were young. Arthur placed Roderich somewhere in his early forties, even though he had very clear skin. He almost looked like royalty, actually; he had that imperious, ethereal quality that demanded respect. Arthur gestured to the sofa across from Roderich. “May we sit and talk with you awhile? Your mate said you might like that.”

Roderich opened his eyes sharply, then tutted. “Ah, she is always doing things in my best interest. Perhaps one day I will follow her example.” He flicked a hand. “Yes, sit, sit. Talk. What will we talk about? _What lovely weather today._ The same grey, grey, grey. White snow. Black trees. Cold, all the time. Everything struggling to live only to be killed when winter comes. This place has no color!”

Arthur and Lovino sat in silence, watching him rant; two rosy pink spots bloomed on Roderich’s cheeks, then began to fade as he sank back into the couch, seemingly exhausted. When it was clear that no more raving was forthcoming, Arthur asked, “Don’t, er, don’t take this the wrong way, but—are you an artist?”

Roderich closed his eyes again, exasperated. “Of _course_ I am an artist. Or, I was.” His voice dipped down to a whisper, rasping with pain. “I was a musician. The best musician in Western Eurasia, perhaps even all of Eurasia. Everyone would have believed you if you told them that. You know of the king, yes?” He looked at them. “Francis Bonnefoy?” He spit this with as much contempt as was possible, and his accent enabled him to achieve notable levels of derision.

Lovino shot Arthur a look. Arthur didn’t bother receiving it, because he’d already made up his mind, and he already knew Lovino would try to change it and it wouldn’t work. Arthur was sick and tired of manipulation and dishonesty. So he said the truth, as it was: “Yes, we know of him. We live in the capital. I am Francis Bonnefoy’s mate. But go on with your story.”

An angry light had come into the violet eyes, but at the mention of his story, the pain and nostalgia crept back in. It was enough to set him back on the path. “Well . . . the king, yes, as I was saying. His father _loved_ my music. Everyone did, but he truly loved it. He had the sort of passion needed to truly appreciate it. I think he could have been a musician himself, if not for the role he was born to play. I made him music and we all lived happily in the beautiful West. And then Francis took his father’s place as king.” Roderich’s expression hardened. “He had a guard he was very close to. Gilbert Beilschmidt.” This name was said with even more contempt than the previous, bordering on acidic. “I suspect he’s Captain by now. He and I have . . . well.” He looked away darkly. “He and I had a brief history. Then he and Elizabeta did, as well. An eye for an eye.” He sighed again. “He turned Francis against us, and he bade us leave. We could not stay anywhere in the West, or we would be hunted. And we could not go East.”

“Why not?” Lovino asked, surprising Arthur.

Roderich rolled his eyes. “No better than the West. They called us Deformed— _ignorant_ word—as soon as they learned that Eliza and I are mates. She is an Alpha, you see.” (Because females in general were rare, female Alphas were even moreso, and were automatically deemed an upset of the Natural Order.) “And I am an Omega with . . .” He pursed his thin lips, searching for the proper word. “. . . attitude.”

Lovino nodded sagely. “We know what that’s like.” (Arthur had to swallow a giggle.)

Roderich arched a dark eyebrow, but finished his tale with the appropriate dismal tone. “So we stole a small boat and came here. We were blessed with calm seas that day, or the journey would have been the end of us. Elizabeta was so strong . . . She still is, of course. She saves my life every day.” He removed his spectacles for a moment, to touch a fingertip delicately to the corner of each eye. After putting his spectacles back on and taking a deep breath, he went on, “We sought asylum from the Jarls, and after we had told them each dark detail of our story, they told us that they saw us as the victims and that we were welcome to stay here. And so now this is our home. I am not _ungrateful_ for their kindness, but I so despise this place. The brutal winters and bleak seas have beaten the inspiration from me. That, and I’m old.” Roderich shrugged glumly. “All good things must come to an end.”

Arthur thought of his relationship with Francis, and the fracture in his heart drove him to speak. “If what we came to do works out, you will be able to return to our home, Roderich.”

Violet eyes narrowed. “Do not jest.”

“I assure you that I am completely serious. We have lived in the West all our lives. We have been made objects and slaves by those Alphas who never think to question why they act the way they do. Lovino has been called Deformed before, and I have, too—just because we are birds of prey, not tiny tweeting things that seem weak and so fit in with Alphas’ idea of Omega inferiority. We will not take it any longer. We will approach the Court of Jarls tonight and ask them for help to fight this battle.” Arthur met Roderich’s gaze, the green of his eyes brighter than any blade of grass or leaf in the West. “And if we win, I promise you—you will go home again.”

Roderich stared at Arthur with such intensity, Lovino actually tensed up, thinking the Austrian Omega was going to lunge at them. Instead, the older man leapt to his feet and dashed from the room, calling urgently, “No interruptions! No tea!”

Arthur and Lovino stood, bewildered and alarmed. They stepped into the hall, where Elizabeta was waiting, hands clasped to her chest in euphoria. When she saw the visitors, she cried, “Oh, thank you so much!”

“Um . . .” Arthur blinked. “I’m sorry, but what exactly did we do?”

Elizabeta embraced both of them, then clapped her hands, ecstatic. “You gave him a spark!”

She implored them to stay for dinner, but when Lovino saw that it was swiftly darkening outside, they had to reject the offer. Elizabeta made them very informed in the fact that they were welcome to visit any time at all, and they thanked her and raced back to the inn, getting lost several times because nothing looked the same in the dark (and because Arthur was even clumsier when he couldn’t see and the cobbles were out for blood). At long last, they found their inn, with Emil standing outside, arms crossed impatiently over his chest.

“You’re late,” he remarked flatly, though his eyes brightened a tiny bit when they found Arthur.

“Sorry, we were talking to—”

“We got lost and—”

Arthur and Lovino talked over each other and stopped, giving each other small apologetic smiles.

Emil waved a hand as if to brush their excuses away. “It doesn’t matter. Come with me.” He started walking, then glanced back over his shoulder with the barest hint of a smile. “The Court of Jarls is waiting for you.”


	20. Chapter 20

“Let it be known that the government of Scandinavia

does not decide its members based on sex, nor gender,

nor anything but blood and skill.

The lack of Omegas in the Court of Jarls

is purely coincidental.”

_—public address by Jarl Lukas Bondevik_

 

Lovino wasn’t sure what he expected the jarls’ palace to look like, after seeing how comfortably shabby the rest of the city was, but he was still surprised to find that it was not a palace—it was a fortress. A brick wall taller than Lovino and Arthur put together surrounded the place, complete with bastions and an iron-enforced wooden door that looked denser than a Western Alpha. Unlike in the West, the guards here did not patrol the streets. They stayed here at the fortress, and they did not carry rifles or wear uniforms. Wolves with thick white or grey coats stalked along the wall, ears swivelling, occasionally sniffing at the air and clouding it with their breath. Lovino couldn’t help but see Gilbert in their on-alert posture, but when the trio approached the wooden door, two wolves immediately galloped over, barking happily, tails waving in the air. They shifted when they drew near, rising up into tall but grinning men in dark coats. They heaved open the huge door without much effort and bowed deeply to the guests, eyes closed, smiles on their lips.

Lovino stood frozen in place, astonished beyond words. Alphas—guards, no less—had rushed _happily_ to open a door for three Omegas, and now they were bowing?!

Emil glanced back at him, clearing his throat. “Now is not the time to stand around, Mr. Vargas.”

Lovino met Arthur’s gaze and saw his own shock and delight reflected there. _Can you believe this? This is what life could be like!_

Another pair of wolves came to open the doors of the fortress itself. It lacked the elegance and height of Francis’s castle, but it made up for it in sheer sturdy austerity. The castle was light, flying flags from the peaks of its spindly towers. The fortress was dark, stocky, made almost entirely of stone. It was like a great boulder that had been dropped in place here. No force could ever summon the might to move it.

They moved so quickly inside that Lovino could barely take anything in, though he did note the torches on the wooden pillars supporting the higher sections of ceiling, and the walls (which had the same swirling floral designs on them as the room at the inn). Emil ushered them to an anteroom—where servants came from nowhere to remove their coats—and advised, “Do not speak first, it’s customary for the jarls to greet their guests. It’s believed that beginning a meeting with hospitality will mean good fortune for the proceedings.”

Lovino wasn’t a fan of superstition, but if it made people polite, he supposed there wasn’t too much of a problem with it. He didn’t even have time to be nervous before Emil opened the door and shepherd Arthur and Lovino through.

Now they were in a dining room. A long table, though not as pointlessly long as the one in the castle, set with several loaves of fresh bread, cheeses, and three different haunches of meat. And, sitting around the further outward side of the table so that they all faced the incomers, was the Court of Jarls.

At one end of the table was a small man with dark, almost depthless blue eyes. At the other end was a much larger man, with spectacles and very broad shoulders. In the chair nearest him was another small man, this one clearly an Omega—he was beautiful with his golden hair and dark brown eyes. And, at the middle of the table, long arms spread wide in welcome, was a man with the spikiest hair Lovino had ever seen. It was this man—he of the hair—who spoke through a charming smile.

“Welcome, Mr. Kirkland. Welcome, Mr. Vargas. We are eager to dine with you both, so please, sit down.” He waited until they had taken their places with Emil on the opposite side of the table before continuing, “My name is Mathias Køhler. To my right is Lukas Bondevik.” He leaned to touch the small jarl’s hand. “Smile, _min Trold_.”

Lukas resembled Emil the most now, because they were brothers and because his expression didn’t come close to changing. He was nearly impossible to read, and his words came out in a flat and surprisingly deep voice. “You waste too much time. Next time I will do the introductions.”

“Ah, but it doesn’t count as hospitable if you don’t smile.” Mathias chuckled when Lukas rolled his eyes, and continued on with the introduction. “To my left is the kind-hearted Tino Väinämӧinen, mate of Berwald Oxenstierna, who is looming at the other end of this fine table.”

Tino giggled shyly, and Berwald regarded them all with a thoughtful expression, but gave no greeting beyond a slight incline of his head. Lovino was used to the West, where everyone had something to say but only few were allowed to speak. Being in a place where people chose to stop and ponder their words was at once alien and refreshing.

Mathias laid his palms flat on the table, long fingers pointed at Arthur and Lovino. “Emil tells me you have come from the South. Oh, pardon me, the West.” A twinkle of anticipation came into his eyes. “You were are hoping to change some things?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied. Lovino could hear a tremble of fear in his voice, with all these appraising eyes on him, but he fought through his obstacles as always. Nothing could remove the light from those green eyes. “We wish to fight for Omega rights in Western Eurasia. We’ve called ourselves the Promegas, because there’s no one else to stick up for us, so we have to do it ourselves. But three people could never face Naturalism on their own, so we’ve come to ask for your help. Please. Help us make our home as welcoming and wonderful as yours.”

“Flattery,” remarked Lukas, tone now more thoughtful than flat, “is not necessary.”

Arthur’s cheeks turned a pale pink hue. “M-My apologies—”

“Oh, don’t apologize.” Mathias waved this away with one hand and stabbed into his venison with the other. “We don’t go in for that posh nonsense. I must admit, Mr. Kirkland—I’m glad someone like you finally sprung up, but I’m surprised there are three of you. I would have thought an Omega like yourself to be one in a million or more in the West, what with the brainwashing they do there. Indoctrination.” His voice had developed a hard edge. “Most Western Omegas don’t care enough to want rights, or at least that was my impression when I last visited.” He sneered. “The _Natural_ way, right?”

Lovino watched Arthur’s expression sour. “With all due respect there is, if any—it isn’t funny. It’s our lives.”

That gave Mathias pause. “Yes, it is your lives. Very true.” He tilted his head to one side, like a puppy. “You flew all the way here. That takes a lot of courage, and strength. But what I want to know is, do you have the bravery to truly fight for those rights you want? You’re brave—”

“We know we’re brave,” Lovino cut in. “We wouldn’t have come if we weren’t going to follow through with this. Do we look like quitters? Arthur has thought through every detail of this plan, trust me. I know, because he’s talked me through it hundreds of times. We’re going to fight. We’ve known that for months.” He tipped up his chin, staring down the Alpha across the table. “The real question is, are _you_ brave enough to fight with us?”

Somehow, the quiet room got even quieter. Tino’s lips parted in a tiny O. Lukas and Emil’s left eyebrows arched slightly. Arthur tried not to look completely terrified of being kicked out. Even Berwald looked to Mathias, curious for his reaction.

But the Danish jarl only stared at Lovino before letting his lips spread into a wide grin. “I like your spirit, Mr. Vargas.”

Something like pleasant fire spiraled out from Lovino’s heart, but it faltered when Lukas spoke again.

“You ask if we are brave enough to fight with you,” said the Norwegian jarl, still unreadable, “but in truth we would not be fighting _with_ you. We would be fighting _for_ you. It would be a war, on your behalf.”

Arthur nodded. “If that’s what it takes, that’s what it takes. But it would be ideal to try and negotiate, first. I don’t want to cause any unnecessary deaths.”

Lovino saw Berwald’s lips quirk before the Alpha took a drink from his goblet.

“Negotiation ruins the element of surprise,” Mathias pointed out.

“We could have our forces waiting behind, use some sort of signal when diplomacy fails,” Emil suggested.

“If it fails,” Tino corrected quickly, voice sort of small. The Jarls all gave tiny nods to him, to show that they acknowledged that he had spoken, but no one actually responded to him.

“And by the time the forces ran in, our Promegas would be captured or killed,” Mathias said. Lovino didn’t know if he was disturbed or not by how flippantly their potential deaths were discussed.

Lukas took in every man at the table with thoughtful, dark eyes, then lifted his gaze to look down the length of the table at Berwald. “What say you, Mr. Oxenstierna?”

Berwald gave a small, respectful nod in Arthur’s direction. “You will have my teeth and my guns at your side.”

Tino smiled encouragingly at Arthur, who looked like he might faint with relief. Lovino’s heart raced, but he was afraid to breathe, lest he upset whatever force had made these Alphas agree to go to war because an Omega tourist asked them to.

Mathias’s eyebrows spiked upward. “Even without us, Berwald? I’ve never seen you make a decision so fast. You would be outnumbered if Lukas and I say no. It would be suicide.”

Berwald gazed steadily at his fellow leader. “We all live in equality here. If we do not fight for it, how can we say we believe in it?”

These simple words made everyone fall quiet, but in a manner much more introspective than the last silence. Mathias and Lukas met each other’s gaze for a long moment, and the Dane’s expression changed from questioning to insistent. Lovino watched this wordless exchange with envy—Alphas and their body language, made things so simple—before realizing that he and Arthur had been communicating with glances for months now. The epiphany made a warm, cozy feeling spread through him.

Mathias was the one to break the silence. “My wolves will fight for you, Promegas,” he said with a smile that turned smug when he showed it to Lukas. Though he didn’t say it, his face did: _so there!_

The only sign of annoyance the small jarl gave was a narrowing of his eyes, but it could have frozen over the sea. “Justified or not,” he said, “war is not something to rush into.”

Mathias’s brow furrowed, and Emil burst out, “But—”

Lukas held up a hand. “Stability, brother.” Then, to Arthur, he said, “We must think on this before an official decision is made. We shall reconvene in a week’s time with an answer to your request.”

Arthur’s eyes widened with mostly stifled disappointment. “Why will it take a week?”

“It won’t,” Lukas replied. “But I do not want to endanger you, nor do I want to let any of my fellow Alphas disgrace themselves.”

 _What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ Lovino looked to Arthur, but the English Omega clearly had no idea, either.

Mathias saw the confusion and chuckled, but not unkindly. “Your Heat, Mr. Kirkland. It’s close. We can smell it.”

Arthur stiffened and turned as red as the tomatoes Lovino would have used to make dinner tonight, if they were still at home. Lovino hadn’t realized how long it had been since Arthur’s last Heat. He supposed, since Lovino’s Heat followed no specific cycle like most, that they were lucky only Arthur was going into it in the middle of their quest.

“Oh, uh, I beg your pardon,” Arthur stammered. “I didn’t realize, with everything going on, I wasn’t really paying attention to my . . .”

“Nothing to worry about,” Mathias assured him. Then he tossed another wide grin around the table. “Now, if we’re done discussing politics for the time being, I do believe it’s time for dessert.”

 

. . .

 

_It was a hideous day._

_Gilbert had never seen such a poor excuse for a summer afternoon. The only sunlight had to filter through a layer of overcast, sickly silver clouds. The breeze was actually a little cold. In the middle of summer! What a joke._

_Gilbert was at an estate a mile or so, out from the capital, set near a lake, with a nice flower garden; it would all be very picturesque, if not for the weather. This was the summer house of Roderich Edelstein, Western Eurasia’s darling composer. A servant—not the musician’s servant, but the servant of a grocer—had gone out to deliver some vegetables, only to return with a story that no one could quite believe, not that many people had heard it. The delivery boy had peeked through a window (when asked why, he said it was because no one had answered his knock on the door) and seen Elizabeta and Roderich mating. Gilbert had almost had him tossed out for that; he was the Captain of the Royal Guard, his time was too valuable to be wasted. But then the story came together: the boy had seen Elizabeta, a female, on top of Roderich. Of course, Roderich was a pretty sort of Alpha, but so was Francis Bonnefoy. No one had ever questioned if he was an Alpha or not. Besides, he was mated to a female—surely she was an Omega._

_But Omegas did not mount Alphas._

_So Gilbert was here, because he cared more about Deformity than any of the other guards, and because something like this required the use of one’s best judgement, and who had better judgement than the captain?_

_He knocked on the door for the second time. His father had impressed this upon him early: Always start things politely. Never be the first to challenge or attack, unless absolutely necessary. You’re a guard, you already have power over others. Don’t abuse it._

_Gilbert leaned to peer in through the window near the door, the same window that started all this trouble. Just a sitting room, chairs, sofa, piano in the corner. No Elizabeta, no Roderich. Gilbert regretted never being properly introduced to the musician or his mate. Roderich had been close to Francis’s father, but since an illness had enfeebled his body and mind (an illness that would claim him within the year) Roderich had been distant, putting out less music than before. Gilbert thought back to the balls he had attended with Francis and Antonio, how amazed he had first been at all the beauty, beauty that his friends had grown numb to. Roderich and his mate had gone to only a few of the balls, Roderich in dashingly elegant frock coats while Elizabeta wore gowns. They kept to themselves—hence the summer house. The king didn’t even have a summer house, but these two did? They were hiding something, most definitely._

_Gilbert tired of waiting and, after a brief negotiation between his shoulder and the door, he stepped into the house. Instantly, the thick scent of an Omega in Heat filled his nose. He hadn’t been expecting it; he had to brace a hand on the wall for a moment, to steady himself._

_Clearing his throat, he called, “This is Gilbert Beilschmidt, Captain of the Royal Guard. I’m here to speak with Roderich Edelstein. Are you here?”_

_Someone was, that was certain. Gilbert lingered a moment longer before striding into the house. As the window had proven, the sitting room was empty, as was the kitchen and the little dining room. Since the house was a bungalow, that left only the bedroom. Another closed door._

_This one wasn’t locked._

_Inside, the scent was so strong, Gilbert couldn’t stop himself from stirring; everything inside him howled for the Omega. Find it, mount it, mate it._

_On the bed, Roderich paused in his writhing and lifted his head to look at Gilbert. He didn’t have his glasses on, so the man was a blur, but it didn’t matter. Gilbert was an Alpha. Roderich was in Heat. Neither could resist the musky taste of the other on their tongue._

_Gilbert approached the bed slowly. His only intention was to lift the dressing gown Roderich wore. Just for a second. Only to see if he was truly an Omega, or if he was more Deformed than Gilbert thought possible. He would check what Roderich was, then back out of the room and wait for Elizabeta to come home. Then they would talk about this. He would control himself. He would not touch Roderich’s slick-smeared flesh. He would not duck his head to inhale the intoxicating scent. He would not utterly lose control of himself._

_He had honest intentions._

_But when Elizabeta returned from hunting to find Gilbert up to the hilt in her mate, it looked anything but honest._

_Everything happened so quickly—and Gilbert was so caught up in the moaning Austrian beneath him—that he didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. Elizabeta grabbed Gilbert’s arms and bound them, yanking him off her mate and onto the floor. She was so strong, stronger than any female had a right to be. She shoved him facedown on the floor, shoved his legs apart. He bucked beneath her, shock giving way to fury. “Let go of me! I am the Captain of—”_

_But she cut him off. “I don’t care what you are. You think you can just take advantage of someone without consequences? Let’s see how you like it.”_

_And she—it—the monster thrust its hard, hot length into him. Everything Gilbert had ever known to be true about himself shattered. All of his strength left him, flooding out as the agony flooded in. He was not readied at all, and after the first few thrusts, he tore. The sharp scent of blood cut through the Heat-scent. Roderich whimpered, senseless on the bed. Elizabeta snarled, an abomination on top of him. And Gilbert?_

_Gilbert, the Captain of the Guard? Defender of the High Alpha? One of the cruelest Alphas in the West?_

_He closed his eyes against the pain, opened his mouth, and sobbed._

 

He didn’t jerk awake. He merely opened his eyes, found them leaking tears of shame, and let his wolf form take over. It would protect him, just as the Natural way would protect him.

Wolves couldn’t cry.

He left the bedroom he’d assigned himself in the castle and padded down the hall. He pricked his ears, but there was no sound in the massive house. Antonio had come before dark, asking if the children would be allowed to visit Francis. Gilbert told him the obvious: of course not, they were just children. It was unwise to expose them to Deformity, even if it was in their father. _Especially_ if it was in their father. They had to be protected from any danger, and that included bad influences.

Now, Gilbert nudged a door open with his snout. It was too dark to see, but he knew what it looked like: everything was cheerful and soft and pink. Silent, save for the click of his claws against the floor, Gilbert stepped to Matthew’s little bed.

The toddler’s eyes didn’t open. He was lost in his dreams.

With great care, Gilbert climbed up onto the bed and curled up around Matthew. It was a squeeze, but he didn’t care, and neither did the Omega, who mumbled squeakily in his sleep and snuggled into the fur of Gilbert’s ruff.

The silver wolf rested his muzzle on Matthew’s pillow. He breathed in the sweet scent of the boy, the only thing that could calm his heart on a night like this one. Then he breathed out a sigh. Matthew’s curls quivered from the gust, then stilled once again.

Gilbert slept, but this time he didn’t dream.

 

. . .

 

That night, Arthur and Lovino returned to the inn, where Feliciano was groggy but well enough to smile when they told him about the relative success of the dinner with the jarls.

The next morning, they had “open sandwiches” for breakfast, topped with sliced eggs and cheese. When Feliciano finished his with a cheerful verdict of, “Yummy!” Arthur offered his untouched portion. “I’m not hungry, you have mine.” His skin was already darkening, pink with his rushing blood, his rising Heat.

Emil showed up around noon, took one look at Arthur, and said, “You’ll have to come down to the basement. The doors have stronger locks down there.”

Arthur stood up on unsteady legs, arms hugged tight around himself. He started to follow Emil without protest, but Lovino spoke up: “Is it safe down there? Do you have someone to guard the door? Just in case?”

Emil arched an eyebrow. “I thought I might do it myself, Mr. Vargas. Is that alright?”

Lovino hesitated. He trusted Emil Bondevik, didn’t he? He didn’t hold him up on a pedestal like Arthur might, but he did trust him. He trusted him more than he trusted an Alpha. Yet, there was a niggling doubt in the back of his mind, urging caution. Lovino used to feel this way in the early days of living in the Beilschmidt house, when Feliciano went into Heat and Gilbert was the only Alpha home. Lovino made a point to always be near whenever Gilbert walked by the locked door, just waiting for the German to fail. Lovino had seen the effect the pheromones had; whenever Gilbert passed, it was like a shudder went through him. But he never broached the boundaries set. He never even touched Lovino during Heat, which no one could believe for the longest time. A man of restraint only in sex; how very, _very_ peculiar.

The problem now, Lovino realized, was not that he thought Emil would do anything to harm Arthur. It was just that Lovino wanted to be the one to protect him.

“Maybe I’ll join you,” Lovino said, but glanced at his little brother, unsure. Was it fair to leave Feli in favor of Arthur? They were both his friends, but one was blood . . .

Seeing the dilemma, Emil said, “Tino came along with me, he’s downstairs. He can keep Feliciano company. I suspect you’ll get along.”

Two pretty Omegas both adoring of their huge blond Alphas? They had a good amount of common ground, and Feliciano was friendly enough to smooth over any remaining bumps. He hopped eagerly out of bed. “Let’s go!”

Arthur took a deep breath, pushing sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. “Yes, let’s go.”

They left Feli and Toni giggling over cups of honey mead, and down into the cellar the trio went. Most of the space down here was used for storage, and most of what was stored was spirits. Mead and ale and wine, in barrels big enough to live in. There were shelves of preserves as well, and dried herbs hanging from hooks. The room Emil lead them to was tiny, without even a real bed, just a straw mattress and a blanket that had seen better days. An unenthused torch provided enough light to make out Arthur as he stumbled in and collapsed on the mattress.

“We’ll lock the door and hold on to the key,” Emil told him.

Arthur curled on his side. “A-Alright,” he forced out, through his trembling. “Tha-ank you.”

Emil closed the door, locked it, and dropped the iron key into his pocket. Lovino crossed his arms. Emil crossed his arms. They regarded each other.

“For a place all about equality,” Lovino remarked, “this is some pretty Alpha-centric stuff.”

Emil’s lips curved upward. “Alpha-centric? You’ve read my work too, then?”

“Arthur has read a lot of it to me.” He remembered those evenings the Alphas hunted, the pair of them sitting beneath the willow together, Lovino’s legs laid over Arthur’s, words flowing from Arthur’s lips as calm and steady as the river. Lovino was a little glad for the days when Feliciano had to stay home from Promega meetings. Then he had Arthur all to himself. “Seems like we shouldn’t have to lock ourselves up, if everything is fair here.”

“Fair and equal aren’t the same thing,” Emil pointed out. “I’m sure that the majority of Scandinavian Alphas have more self-control than Western Eurasians. But still, there is simply no way to overcome our biology. It would be like saying Scandinavian Omegas shouldn’t go into Heat, because Alphas don’t, so this is not equal. Some things simply are as they are. We cannot change our physical selves.”

That word—physical—reminded Lovino of their first conversation. “I want to ask you something that’s probably personal and rude.”

Emil made a sound close to a chuckle. “Ask it, and we’ll see if it gets an answer.”

“You told me you’re an Omega. Physically. What does that mean?”

“Just as it says. My body is that of an Omega. I become a bird, a puffin, when I so wish. I go into Heat once a month. I could likely carry children, but I doubt I will.”

This was the first time Lovino had ever heard someone else talk about not wanting children. Feliciano had endless fantasies about filling their home with children—though Ludwig was waiting until the Omega’s body had finished developing first—and Arthur had no regrets about becoming a mother, even if his child was a bratty prince of a pup.

“I don’t want to ever have children,” Lovino said, but then he added, “Well, I don’t think I would mind raising one someday. But getting pregnant and all that, I don’t even want to think about it. It makes me feel disgusting.”

Emil nodded. “It makes me feel disgusting, too. It makes me wish my body was different, so that I wouldn’t even have the possibility of growing a child.”

Lovino felt warm, solid kinship fortifying his heart. “Exactly. That’s how I feel, too.”

“Then perhaps you’re like me, Lovino. Physically Omega, but mentally Alpha-like.”

The words made no sense, and yet they set off a little spark of self-discovery inside Lovino’s head. “What does that mean? How can someone be an Omega and an Alpha at the same time?”

“You must not have read the newest of my work. I’ve been looking more and more into this in the past year.” Emil was trying to school his tone into the slow, respectable way his brother spoke, but he was clearly beyond delighted to discuss his studies. “My theory is that everyone has two separate identities—the physical, and the mental. We have always thought of it as sex, but to avoid confusion I call the physical _sex_ and the mental _gender_. Do you follow?”

Lovino blinked. “Uh, so far, I think.”

“Good. The physical is the simple side of things—whatever you have between your legs determines if you are an Alpha or an Omega. The mental side is vastly complicated. I like to think of it as a spectrum—do you know what that is?”

Lovino could only shake his head, enthralled.

“Well, it is like this: if you have a line, and you put black on one end and white at the other, what will go in the middle as they blend?”

Lovino wracked his brain. Arthur would be able to answer this in a second. He could just grasp it himself, he knew the answer, it was . . . “Grey?”

Emil’s teeth flashed in a grin, surprisingly happy to be a teacher. “Precisely! And if I put Alpha at one end of the spectrum, and Omega at the other?”

There was no word for this in-between, but Lovino knew. “Then everybody goes somewhere. Feli goes on the Omega end.” _Gilbert goes on the Alpha end._

“And people like us fall somewhere in the middle,” Emil finished. “I think we have been oversimplifying things for centuries. Take my brother, for example. He is a leader and a stoic—both very Alpha-like traits—but he is also the submissive partner with his mate, Mathias. So, is he Alpha-like or Omega-like? He cannot be called either, because he is both. He falls in between.”

Lovino reeled. Lukas Bondevik, the only jarl who had not outright agreed to help them, was _submissive_? An Apha mated to another Alpha. Arthur had claimed it existed in the North, but that didn’t stop it from being totally surreal. Lovino couldn’t stop himself from wondering how they would actually mate. Would Mathias actually go _in_ —? Lovino blushed. He never considered how many different ways people could pleasure each other.

As if on cue, Lovino heard a muffled moan on the other side of the door. It was not a very pleasant one; it dipped low, then high, a lament for Arthur’s discomfort. And then . . . was he sobbing?

Lovino listened to it for only a few moments before he couldn’t take it any longer. “Unlock the door, Emil.”

The Scandinavian had been listening to the lament with a slight frown of sympathy, but now he glanced at Lovino in surprise. He was waiting for an explanation of the request, but the Italian just stared at him with an expectant arch to his eyebrow. In the West, he would be smacked across the face for standing in such an insolent, arrogant, Alpha-like way. But here?

Here, Emil just looked at him for a moment longer before removing the key from his pocket, unlocking the door, and pushing it open. Lovino stepped inside and closed the door behind him, to give Arthur as much privacy as possible, then waited for his eyes to adjust to the weak orange light.

Arthur lay sprawled on the mattress, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to him despite being unbuttoned, a dark patch slowly spreading on his trousers, between his legs. Lovino swallowed a lump in his throat, fighting to tear his gaze from the stain of slick. Arthur had his arms curled around his head as if to protect himself; his body shook with each raw sob.

Lovino’s heart went out to him. He moved slowly through the thick air—the room already smelled musty, and the musk of Arthur’s Heat added a sweet warmth to it—to sit on the edge of the mattress. Arthur felt the shifting weight and lifted his head. His cheeks were flushed, bringing out the green of his eyes. He had a plain, delicate prettiness to him typically, but right now he looked beautiful, a lush creature born to be ravished.

Emil’s words echoed, heartened. _An Omega physically. Alpha-like mentally._ Lovino again felt the happiness at being in a place where he was welcome to be whatever he wanted to be. He didn’t have to conform. He only had to _be._

Lovino swore himself into courage and gently touched Arthur’s back, murmuring, “Can I make you feel better, _britanno_?”

Arthur was hardly in his right mind to say no, if an Alpha had asked this question. He would be pawing at that Alpha right now, sensing the strong body, seeking the knot that would bring relief. But Lovino was an Omega. He had no rutting pheromones for Arthur’s body to respond to. So the words sank in for Arthur, even if they took longer than usual.

Lovino expected rejection, or—worse—a mindless whimper, Arthur’s body begging for something the man himself might not even want.

Instead, Arthur pushed himself onto his knees with a whine of effort, put a hand on Lovino’s shoulder to steady himself, and pressed their lips together.

Antonio had tried to do this before, but it had been like kissing a pillow. There was no connection, for either of them. But now, kissing Arthur, Lovino felt the same rush of joy in his stomach as he did when they flew together, they kite and the harrier, kings of the sky. Lovino moved to his knees as well, their lips never parting, and pulled Arthur closer. The English Omega arched his back, pressing into Lovino, letting him take control of the kiss despite his lack of experience. A dominant Omega. Lovino remembered the enjoyment he had felt that first morning with Antonio, the power he felt in controlling the other’s pleasure. There was a quickening between Lovino’s thighs; a shiver went through both Omegas as they explored each other, Arthur squeezing Lovino’s shoulders, Lovino cupping Arthur’s breasts, tender with Heat and still larger than normal from his leftover pregnancy weight.

“I w-want you, Lovi,” Arthur forced out, trembling with his need. He wouldn’t demand to be mated. Neither of them even knew what was possible to ask of the other. They just knew that they wanted the other now, _now_.

Lovino didn’t hesitate. Acting on a combination of instinct and longing, he gently laid Arthur down on his back and took off his shirt and trousers. The latter he had to peel off, so drenched they were with slick. Arthur’s pale skin was blotchy, flushed with Heat, his stomach lined here and there with fading stretch marks. But, for some reason, the most surprising thing was the little patch of hair between his legs, the same pale gold as the hair atop his head. Lovino trailed his fingertips through it as lightly as possible, but Arthur still jerked, thighs tightening briefly. Lovino gently massaged the thighs and, when Arthur was used to the touch, urged them apart.

Lovino had a fairly good idea of what Omegas had between their legs—he’d felt his own, and he’d had glimpses of his brother’s when they bathed together as children—but he’d never seen it like this before. The outer lips were spread with Arthur’s legs, and the inner petals were swollen with the Heat and gaped, desperate for something to thrust between them. But what Lovino had in mind was a sight bigger than what Arthur’s body had grown accustomed to, and besides—Lovino wanted Arthur to know what he meant to him. So he lowered himself down and kissed Arthur, tasting the sweet and the salt of him, sucking and tonguing until Arthur’s moans turned to cries of love as he rocked himself against Lovino’s face.

But it wasn’t enough; Arthur needed more. Lovino wiped his face mostly dry on his shirt, then maneuvered Arthur onto his hands and knees. Arthur immediately assumed lordosis, arching his spine to best present what Lovino had just had his face buried in. Even so, the sight made Lovino throb, slick oozing between his own thighs. But he could get to that later. Now was Arthur’s time.

Lovino traced Arthur’s labia, slipping two fingers into the ever-eager hole. He didn’t need any stretching, he was beyond ready. Once Lovino’s hand was well-coated with slick, he tucked his thumb beneath his fingers and slowly but surely drove his fist into Arthur’s burning, yielding body.

“Lovi!” Arthur cried, hands clutching fistfuls of mattress.

Lovino marveled at the feeling, those wet walls clenching around his hand, his wrist as he pushed in and out. It felt . . . oh, he didn’t know how it felt, he just wanted it. He didn’t think, he simply acted and felt. Dominance thrilled. As he fucked—no, as he _loved_ —Arthur with his fist, he slipped his other hand into his trousers, rubbing himself in time with the motions of his arm. _Arthur, oh, Arthur._ Did he say it aloud? Nothing mattered but the rising, rising, rising—Arthur gave a final keen, wailing Lovino’s name. Lovino felt the walls ripple and contract around his fist, almost locking it in place. Arthur convulsed through his orgasm, then collapsed to the mattress. The other’s peak drove Lovino to his own, and a few shudders went through him before he too dropped with a low moan. Spent, for now, they tangled together on the makeshift bed, panting and flawed and perhaps unnatural, but still beautiful.


	21. Chapter 21

“Did you hear what Arthur Bonnefoy did?”

_—ninety percent of Western Eurasians_

 

“Unca Gil?”

Gilbert paused in buttoning the navy coat of his uniform to look at Matthew, who was sitting with his half-brother in the middle of Gilbert’s bed. As usual, their posture reflected them—Matthew sat with his hands folded neatly in his lap, pink dress ending just before his little white shoes. And Alfred tore around the mattress, trying to tempt Matthew into chasing him, occasionally nipping the Omega’s skirt and giving little tugs. The golden pup was rambunctious at the best of times, but he was overly excited this morning. Gilbert suspected it was his fault; he was a bit nervous about addressing the public, and he knew firsthand that wolves were sensitive to the feelings of others.

He snapped his fingers, and Alfred tripped over his own paws in his haste to face the dominant Alpha. The pup parted his little jaws, panting softly; with his head tilted slightly to one side, it almost looked like he was grinning. Gilbert’s stern expression quelled it, however. Alfred ducked his head and dropped to his belly, chin between his forepaws, looking upward with sad blue eyes. If only royalty was always this well-behaved. Gilbert didn’t mind the pup being rowdy, just not where he could hurt Matthew.

“Settle down, Alfred,” he said. The pup’s ears perked, hearing his name. Gilbert’s attention shifted to Matthew. “What’s wrong, _Neffe_?”

Matthew had never looked so glum. His little pink lips curved downward in a frown, and his azure eyes were bright with concern. _“Où est Papa?”_

Gilbert had to look away from the sincerity on the boy’s face; for whatever reason, it made pain flare in his chest. “He’s gone, I’m afraid. He had to leave.” His voice softened. “But don’t worry. I won’t leave you.”

When he’d finished buttoning his coat and risked another glance at the children, both had sorrowful expressions. Even Alfred’s ears drooped, because the boy was reminded of the mother who had still not returned. For just a moment, looking at the youthful faces that should have held ignorant bliss and instead were tainted by the realities of life, Gilbert thought, _What am I doing here?_

But then there was a knock on the ajar door, and it pushed open to reveal Ludwig’s solemn face. He was trying hard not to look nervous, Gilbert could see—and even if he couldn’t tell by the face, Ludwig’s posture was more forced than usual, his steps just slightly unsure of themselves. If Gilbert saw him in a herd, he would go after him. Fear and uncertainty were weaknesses. _But this is your brother. Get a grip._

“Ready?” Ludwig asked, after a nod of greeting to the children.

Gilbert checked his reflection in the looking-glass. Everything was military straight, secured and polished—except one thing.

Ludwig noticed it too. “Did you forget to shave?”

Gilbert rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “ _Nein_. I like it like this.” He’d never grown facial hair before, but he enjoyed having it. It made him feel wilder, another part of his wolf form showing through. How much could the two parts overlap, he wondered, before it was impossible to tell them apart? They said if you crossed your eyes long enough, they’d stay that way. Perhaps the same rule applied to people themselves. “Besides,” he added, trying to lighten the mood, “the people are used to a stubbled leader. This might ease the transition.”

Ludwig regarded him humorlessly. “Hm.” He stepped to the bed, allowing Alfred to nuzzle into his large hand. Matthew looked up at him sadly, and a rueful furrow found its home between the guard’s eyebrows. “Do you think, perhaps, Antonio should be taking the king’s place? It’s the way things are usually done.”

Gilbert eyed his brother and replied slowly. “ _Ja_. If he wasn’t just as bad as Francis, he would be taking his place. He knows more about being High Alpha than I do.” He shrugged. “But I know how to lead. Civilians are not all that different from guards, they’re just less obedient.”

Normally, that would have been the end of it. But Ludwig asked,“What are you going to tell them?”

“You’ll know when I do it. Don’t act so foolish, _Bruder_.” Gilbert stood at the foot of the bed and held his arms out to Matthew, who crawled over and nestled his head in the crook of Gilbert’s shoulder once he had been lifted up. Gilbert snapped the fingers of his free hand, and Alfred flung himself off the bed to prance in eager circles around the Captain’s feet. Gilbert turned to look at Ludwig. “I’ll tell them I’m taking Francis’s place until Alfred has come of age. If they ask where he went, I’ll say he and Antonio abandoned their posts. Which they did, the moment they started believing this unnatural nonsense. I won’t say a word about the Omegas. They won’t care enough to ask.” He arched an eyebrow. “Is there a problem with that?”

Ludwig took a deep, contemplative breath. There were many problems with it, the largest of which being that the night before he’d met with Francis and Antonio, rousing them from the same bed to share his plans. They had to go North, he told them. The Omegas could only have gone for two reasons: to live there, or to bring back fighting forces. As difficult as it was to imagine, Ludwig knew it was the latter. Feliciano had not come out and said it, but he would have been far more upset if they were leaving forever (Ludwig hoped that his mate wouldn’t just up and leave for good . . .). If they were going to start a war, Francis and Antonio should make it clear what side they were on. They knew how Gilbert would lead and organize attacks. They could be invaluable. Francis and Antonio had looked terrified at the idea of throwing themselves on the mercy of the Jarls, but Ludwig had insisted, and finally they relented. Now they were on a small ship, the crew of which had been paid an incredible sum to mind their tongues—not to remain silent, notice. They were welcome to tell anyone the story of the Promegas, so long as they didn’t mention who told them: Ludwig.

As they stood here in the oblivious capital, the surrounding towns and villages buzzed with rumors, the story spreading like a virus.

Ludwig was, officially, a traitor.

But he just inclined his head. “No, that sounds alright to me.”

Gilbert nodded sharply. “Good. Come on. We have a public to address.” He strode from the bedchamber, Matthew content in his arms, Prince Alfred trotting obediently at his heels.

Ludwig let out the breath he had been holding. _I hope you know what you’re doing, Arthur._ Burying his misgivings as deeply as he could, the German Alpha followed after his brother to face their people.

 

. . .

 

“Hey, Alistair, what’s this about your brother flying North?”

Alistair bared his teeth in a vicious scowl. God, he couldn’t even leave his house without hearing about his daft runt of a brother. “It’s bullshit,” he said, for the tenth time that morning. “He probably just fell down the stairs and broke his neck. That’s their cover-up. They don’t want the rich cityfolk to cry.”

Everyone laughed, but no one knew what to believe, Alistair least of all.

He cursed his brother. _Why couldn’t you just be normal? Would that be too much to bloody ask?_

 

. . .

 

_“Psst.”_

Eduard didn’t open his eyes. “Mmm. Go away.”

“Okay, but we’re all talking and you’ll whine that we left you out after, I know you get like that, Eddie.”

He opened his eyes now. “Shut your mouth, Feliks. I’m trying to rest, you know I had Ivan at dawn. I’m still sore.”

Feliks rolled his heavy-lidded eyes. “Uh-huh. Well, it’s about Promegas.”

Eduard rubbed his face. “What is a Promegas?”

Feliks smiled smugly. “Ex _act_ ly.”

“Ugh, you’re useless.” Eduard pushed himself up from his bed—his mattress always smelled of Alpha musk—and followed Feliks down to the Satin Room, a plush chamber where the Omegas lay on soft couches so the visiting Alphas could choose which they’d like to fuck. Toris, Raivis, and Kat were here now, all on the same couch, speaking in undertones. They looked up at Eduard and Feliks’s entrance, and Raivis moved to a cushion on the floor. Eduard gave him a fond smile as he sat beside Toris. “What’s all this about?”

“Promegas.” Feliks sat down on the floor with Raivis, his lilac gown pooling around him. He studied his nails. “Get the Alpha seed out of your ears.”

“So help me, Feliks—” Eduard began.

“Calm down,” Toris cut in, glancing between them with his perpetually worried green eyes. “Please. Feliks, watch your mouth a bit more, if you could.”

They all watched the blond Omega try to look at his own mouth for a moment.

“He fell out of the nest,” Eduard said. “There’s no other explanation.”

They all nodded, even Kat.

“Anyway,” Toris said, turning to Eduard. “Did Ivan mention what happened to the king’s mate?”

“No, we didn’t do much talking.” _Russian dog._ His pelvis would be sore for a week.

“He went to Scandinavia!” Raivis whispered, eyes round. “Without an Alpha! He flew!”

That gave Eduard pause. “Why?”

“To bring soldiers back, that’s what they’re saying,” Toris replied. “To fight for Omegas. That’s why they’re _Pro_ megas, I think. They want us to be the same as Alphas. Equal.”

It was too good to be true. An Omega hero? Someone to fight for them? If they won . . . if they won, the Omegas would be freed from their life at the brothel. The way things were now, Eduard could do nothing else—no one wanted a barren Omega as a mate. No one wanted an Omega who had a miscarriage without even being mated, like Toris did. But all of that would be forgotten. They could work anywhere Alphas could. They could be free.

Kat reached out to stroke Raivis’s curls. Her blue eyes were soft, like the rest of her, and she had been here long enough that they did not hold much hope, but they did have a tiny spark. “Good luck be with them.”

In unison, all the Omegas—even Feliks—murmured, “Good luck be with them.”

 

. . .

 

“ _Arthur_ ,” Lovino hissed through his gasps. “Arthur—”

The English Omega gave no sound beyond a desperate mewl as they ground together, connected at the hips. Lovino felt so useless—the tribbing felt good, so good, but it was not enough to sate Arthur’s Heat. It would have been so simple if Lovino wasn’t physically an Omega. The thought added frustration to his movements, fast and ragged—and then they were crying out and shaking, grabbing for each other as they fell flat.

Lovino had come more times in the past few hours than he had his whole life, and yet the best part—pleasing his partner—was denied him, simply because they were both Omegas. Emil’s words echoed ( _some things are simply as they are_ ) but they weren’t a comfort this time.

Arthur writhed on the soaked straw mattress, rubbing his thighs together and squeezing his eyes shut. He was beyond words at this point, and would only get worse until his Heat drew to an end. It was worse for him, Lovino knew, because he’d gone so long without a mate. A year and a half of each Heat soothed before it even truly began, only to find himself Alphaless, with only Lovino to help him? He was suffering. Lovino could do nothing but try and try to fill his emptiness, and now he was too exhausted to even do that. The scent of Heat didn’t drive him into rut like it did to an Alpha. In fact, the thick musky air was starting to make him feel ill.

Lovino waited as long as he could before he had to stand up. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” he said, lightly touching the other Omega’s hip. Arthur immediately spread his legs, his body anticipating yet another round of sex. The thought of it simultaneously turned Lovino on and made him want to curl up and die. _How much can one man have?_ “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I have to go for a while. I’ll be back later, maybe I’ll try to get you to eat some food.”

Arthur buried his face into the pillow and groaned. He wasn’t in the mood to eat. Or maybe he was just groaning because of the Heat; Lovino wasn’t sure if he could understand him or not, but it didn’t really matter at this point.

His clothes felt rather disgusting against the drying sweat and slick on his skin. He found Emil not on the other side of the door, thankfully, but at the top of the stairs, looking on at the main room of the inn. More people than ever had gathered to hear the story of the Promegas, which Feliciano was happy to tell. When Lovino reached the top of the stairs, however, the chatter stopped. Lovino could see the moment his scent reached them; every Alpha’s shoulders tensed and they looked over with hungry eyes.

Emil looked incredulous. “Get back down there!” He pushed Lovino’s arm. “Before you start a frenzy.”

Lovino stepped back down a few steps. “Well, _sorry_ , but someone didn’t tell me where I could get washed.”

Emil rubbed his nose as if to rid it of the scent. “Go back down. I’ll have a washbasin brought to you.” A pregnant pause, followed by a question entirely different from the gruff words before it. “How is Mr. Kirkland?”

Lovino went to run a hand through his hair, then remembered where the hand had just been and decided against it. “He’s not having the best time, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Emil nodded. “It’s too late now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if he had given consent to an Alpha before going into Heat, they could have knotted him. Just so he would not have to suffer through it like this.”

Now Lovino was incredulous. “Does that happen a lot here?”

Emil nodded again. “I do it every month.” Before Lovino could ask, he added, “If he wishes to tell you, he will. But it’s not my place to say on his behalf.”

“Fair enough.” Concern roiled in Lovino’s belly. “Uh . . . Emil?”

The other Omega paused in turning away. “Yes?”

“I asked Arthur if he wanted me to . . . help him. Are you saying, because I didn’t ask before the Heat, are you saying I . . .”

_Raped him?_

Emil stared at him for a long moment before replying, “I cannot say. You will have to discuss it with him afterward. Your way of life is different, for now, than ours. That is why I didn’t stop you from going in with him. You were in control of yourself, yes?”

“Yes.” It sounded hollow.

“And you asked, and he said yes to you?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” Emil nodded once. “It sounds like Mr. Kirkland had some form of understanding. But as I said. Talk to him afterward. Until then, do not think too hard on it. The outcome will not change for your worrying.”

Lovino opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Emil wielded logic even better than Arthur did.

“Say thank you,” Emil advised, an eyebrow raised slightly. “Then get washed, and go for a walk.”

“Thank you,” Lovino said.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Vargas.”

Then he got washed up.

And then he went for a walk.

 

. . .

 

Mathias was sitting on a brick wall eating _pfeffernüsse_ when he saw the spitfire walking down the street.

“Hey, hothead,” he called, loudly. Everyone in the street paused to look over at him, so he smiled and pointed to Lovino and called, “Sorry, folks, that one. The Italian. I didn’t realize so many of you had bad tempers, or I would’ve led with that.”

Everyone smiled back—some even rolled their eyes fondly, much to Mathias’s delight—except Lovino. The Omega hurried over to the wall and stared up at him with narrow eyes. “Why are you up there?”

Mathias shrugged, kicking his feet like a child. “Had to sit somewhere. Figured they wouldn’t mind.” The wall was built around the home of Mathias’s cousins, none of whom minded because they all knew that sitting was the least offensive thing he could be doing to their wall. Mathias patted the topmost bricks. “Join me for an enlightening and deeply meaningful conversation.”

Lovino had backed away a considerable distance to be safe from the swinging legs—they were the sort of legs that started at the hips, kept going, kept going, considered stopping, then kept going some more, and that was before knees got involved—but now he approached again. “What are we going to talk about?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It was really just a ruse to offer you some _pfeffernüsse_.” He held out a hand to help the shorter man up.

To Mathias’s surprise, Lovino’s eyes lit with recognition. He shifted to his bird form long enough to flap up onto the wall (Mathias smiled to himself when he saw the kite) and, once he was settled, accepted a handful of spice cookies. “What did you say these were?”

“ _Pfeffernüsse._ ” The only thing Mathias loved more than speaking his language was hearing Lukas speak it. But, for Lovino’s benefit, he translated, “Peppernuts.”

Lovino arched an eyebrow. “These are not nuts.”

Mathias savored one before replying, “Tell you what, Mr. Vargas, I’ll change the name just for you. Right after the war. Sorry, diplomatic mission. Did I say war?” He shook his head; Lovino’s eyes were on his hair as if the jagged locks might come unattached and stab him. “Silly me. Have some more.”

Lovino accepted the tiny cookies with a _this guy is crazy_ expression, which made Mathias laugh quite a bit. When he was done doing that, he asked, “So how is our revolutionary leader?”

“Getting through it, I guess.” Lovino glumly crunched his peppernuts.

Mathias nodded wisely. “And you wish you could help him and hate that you can’t.”

Lovino stared at him in such genuine alarm that Mathias had to give him a kind smile. “I have the same thing with Lukas. The same relative issue, anyway. Rut, not Heat. Alphas don’t go into rut every month, and it doesn’t last a week, and some don’t even have to deal with it at all, the lucky bastards. But most of us will feel it at least once in our lives. The all-consuming need to fuck someone’s brains out.” He offered his tin of cookies cheerfully. “Another?”

Lovino blinked. “Uh, no thanks. Go on about the—the rut.”

Mathias tilted his head back to toss a cookie into his mouth. “It’s the knotting. If an Alpha doesn’t knot inside someone for a long time, it can mess with their head. Too much built-up need, turns them into an animal. Not pretty.” He shrugged. “But that’s after a long time. Years without mating. I’ve only ever seen one case of it, and the man didn’t even realize it was happening to him until it was too late. It was weird, he didn’t even want to _have_ sex, even though his body did. But he was just a strange fellow all-around. He had other problems, and he didn’t last much longer.” Mathias didn’t want to think too hard on that poor man, trapped somewhere between human and wolf, a body and mind at odds, tearing each other apart until the man was eventually found with slit wrists in his bed. Alphas and Omegas were made to mate, it seemed to Mathias. Depriving the body of what it needed was unhealthy. Bound to cause problems sooner or later.

“But getting back to Lukas.” Always a good topic of conversation. “He never gets to knot, so every now and then he’ll start going into rut. Maybe every three months or so. Like I said, not as bad as Heat. A relative issue.”

“Why three months? What happens to stop it?” Lovino asked. “What keeps him from . . . going strange, like that other Alpha?”

“Well, we made a deal. This was . . . oh, probably seven years ago, now. We’re all very close, understand. We in the Court have known each other since we were old enough to talk. So, basically, when Lukas goes into a rut, he’ll spend a night with Tino.”

As expected, Lovino stared at him as if he’d just spoken gibberish. The flabbergasted Italian finally managed to get out, “But—you’re cheating on your mates. He’s cheating on you!”

Mathias raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t help but be amused. “We don’t call it cheating. I knot Emil when he goes into Heat. It isn’t a secret, though he acts like it is. I don’t mind telling people.”

“Clearly,” Lovino muttered, a bit of distaste in his voice. The Omega was showing his youth.

Now Mathias got serious. “Don’t be so quick to judge. Let me go out on a limb and guess you didn’t have a choice in getting mated?”

Lovino’s brow furrowed. “How did you know I was mated?”

Mathias snorted. “Omegas wouldn’t fly across a sea to be freed from Alphas if they weren’t mated to some.” He ate the last of the peppernuts. “Now tell me this. We are open with each other, we love each other like family, more than family. We do it to help each other. And you were forced to mate somebody you probably didn’t even know. What’s worse?”

Lovino was quiet for a long moment, but Mathias knew he’d won when the Omega muttered, “Now I know why they say Scandinavians are perverted.”

Mathias threw his head back for a great, proud laugh. “Damn right. Happy to be.”

“Sure, but what’ll you do if Tino gets pregnant? Or Emil?”

Mathias smiled. They’d talked through every possibility years ago. “We’re all so close, we’ll all be fathers to any children we have. Blood doesn’t matter here, Mr. Vargas. Love matters. If that makes us perverted, well, like I just said. Happy to be.”

Lovino’s pause was different this time. He looked down at his lap, brown eyes difficult to read. “I don’t have any Alphas I trust enough—or like enough—to help me through a Heat.”

“Well.” Mathias hopped off the wall and held out a hand. Lovino looked at it, at him, before accepting it and letting Mathias lift him down with his other hand on Lovino’s bulky waist. The Danish jarl smiled down at him. “You never know. Maybe, when this is all over, someone will come along.”

Lovino didn’t return the smile, just shook his head and started walking away. He didn’t need an Alpha, he just needed an Alpha’s dick. And now he was thinking of them as objects, just like Alphas made Omegas into. _Hole in the wall._

“Hey, Mr. Vargas!”

He stopped, looked over his shoulder.

Mathias gave him a grin that could have fit from one horizon to the other. “We’re gonna help you. I almost have Lukas convinced. The West will have no chance.”

Lovino held back a smile. “Good. But maybe don’t shout about political stuff in the middle of the street.”

Mathias blinked, then glanced around at all the passersby trying not to stare. He gave Lovino a grateful nod. “Goodness. Thanks, Mr. Vargas. Enjoy your day.”

Lovino nodded back, and walked away feeling victorious—until he heard a hideous clanging and spun around to see Mathias striding down the street on his ridiculously long legs, holding his arms up above his ridiculously spiky hair, banging the lid of the cookie tin against the tin itself and shouting at the top of his lungs, “NO ONE HEARD A THING! LAUGH IF YOU DIDN’T HEAR ANYTHING!” Because, of course, everyone in the street was laughing, from quiet chuckles to guffaws of hysteria at their larger-than-life leader.

Lovino could only watch and think, _Thank god he’s on our side._

 

. . .

 

Mathias found Lukas standing at a window in their drawing room. The Court had two, one more formal than the other. Berwald and Tino reigned over the formal one (they hardly ever went in there, though Mathias had caught them snuggling on the settee once) while Mathias and Lukas spent a fair bit of time in their smaller, shabbier room. Mathias preferred it to the other; he didn’t have to worry about breaking anything, and it wasn’t tainted by political meetings like the other was. They’d had an emperor in there, and several kings. High Alphas and Sovran Omegas were just as bad as each other, though Mathias thought he preferred the kings. The Omegas were scary. Well, just that one. _I wonder how Yao will take the news of his warring neighbors . . ._

That was irrelevant right now. By the time news found its way east, the battles would be over, Mathias felt certain. This would not be a lasting war. It couldn’t be—the matter was too simple. People were equal. How could a majority ever disagree with that, once they’d had their senses beaten back in?

Mathias went to Lukas now, standing behind his mate and resting his hands on the small jarl’s hips.

“I’m not in the mood,” Lukas immediately said, voice flat as ever.

“Mm, me neither,” Mathias agreed, ducking his head to nuzzle behind his mate’s ear. The familiar, perfect scent of him was the truest thing Mathias knew. He trailed kisses down Lukas’s beautiful and, recently, soft jaw. He’d been skeletal through their teenage years, but Mathias had fed him enough Danish desserts that he was finally fattening up. Mathias stroked his hands up and down the delicious curve of Lukas’s waist. “ _Min nat_ ,” he rumbled, kissing his neck. Not a kiss demanding lust; a kiss proclaiming love.

Lukas sighed softly—in irritation. “I cannot believe you put me in this position.”

Mathias lifted his head. “We can sit on the couch, if you’d prefer.”

Lukas stepped out of his embrace, crossing his arms over his chest. “I mean with this Promega business. I’m angry with Berwald, too. He was worse than you. You, I expected to rush right in. But typically I can rely on Berwald to have a level head.”

The Danish Alpha raised his eyebrows. “You’re mad at me?”

Lukas met the wide, unguarded blue eyes before he had to shake his head. “No, I’m not mad at you. _But_ —”

Mathias froze, mid-grin.

Lukas pointed a delicate finger at him. “The next time someone comes before the Court, you must promise me to hold your decision until I have given mine. No matter how much personal investment you have with the visitor.”

Now his expression darkened. “You heard what Bonnefoy called us.”

“Yes, I did. And I heard what you called him. And I say again: sometimes it is best to keep your jaw closed.”

Mathias’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Last time you said _mouth shut_.”

A faint sparkle came into those deep blue eyes. “I thought it sounded a bit too rude in this context.”

Mathias gave a low chuckle, stepping forward again, hands this time warming the small of Lukas’s back. “Are you in the mood yet?”

“I’m getting there.” Lukas lifted a hand to block a kiss. “I’m making up my mind. About the Promegas. I’m trying not to be biased by the fact that you and Berwald have given me no choice but to support them.”

“I would change my mind for you,” Mathias mumbled against Lukas’s palm.

Lukas smiled faintly, pleased to hold this mighty man by a string called love. “You haven’t promised yet,” he pointed out.

“I promise you everything,” Mathias said, taking his hand. He felt the small fingers, the scars only he knew the stories behind, the callouses he prayed would never spread to their hearts. The night they were mated, Mathias had told Lukas, _Your heart is the only thing in this world I will never break._ Now, he pressed a chaste kiss to the back of Lukas’s hand and said, “ _Jeg elsker deg_.”

Lukas reached up to cup Mathias’s face, his own pure in its yearning: _You are what I want. Let me have you, because you are my everything. You promised._

He didn’t have to say it, not anymore. Mathias knew.

Lukas stretched up and Mathias leaned down, and just as their mouths brushed, lips hot as the flames in the fireplace—a guard came in.

“My apologies, sirs,” the Alpha said with a deep bow.

Lukas rested his head on Mathias’s shoulder, his fingers teasing Mathias’s spine through his shirt. The Dane cleared his throat. “Hurry up and spit it out. This better be important.”

“Well.” The guard straightened with a faint sneer on his lips. “Antonio Carriedo and Francis Bonnefoy just arrived, and they wish to speak with you immediately.”

Lukas stiffened in Mathias’s arms, lifted his head from his shoulder, and dropped his hands—all signs of affection gone. The sparkle in his eyes vanished as if it had never existed in the first place. He was no longer in the mood.

Mathias processed this information before voicing all their thoughts:

“Son of a bitch.”


	22. Chapter 22

“Too often we hold love above all else.

Love is not strength. Love is weakness.

I defy any Western or Scandinavian Alpha

to see the life of Alphas in the East

and tell me that love is stronger than hate or fear.”

_—Emperor Yao Wang, The Compendium_

 

It was probably selfish or something, but Francis was having a terrible time.

First, Arthur’s departure. Then Gilbert’s betrayal. Then the hideous time on the ship (he could have kissed the land where they docked, had it not been Scandinavia) and now the humiliation of running to a not-quite-enemy for help. For _mercy._

The Omegas did it, he reminded himself. A new mantra, though it did little to soothe his nerves. Antonio was the only comfort in sight, a piece of living sunlight in this barren wasteland of Nordic people. God, they were terribly dressed. (And their _hair_ . . .) Francis hated all of this, every single component of this damned situation, and he said as much.

“I know,” Antonio murmured, speaking in French so the fortress guards would not eavesdrop. They were in the main hall of the Court—a shabby excuse for a corridor compared to the castle’s grand hall—and Antonio was sweating in his bulky coat. The ship captain had bundled up his royal cargo in unsightly furs that smelled worse than they looked. Francis did have his own fur coat, tucked away from the last time he visited the Jarls (a long time ago indeed, before his first marriage), but he could not risk going into the castle to get it. If Gilbert was crazy enough to call him Deformed and toss him out simply for suggesting something, who knew what he might do upon seeing Francis again? Francis wished he could have said goodbye to his children. Thinking of them now, their soft warm cheeks dimpled with smiles, their eyes holding more color than the entirety of Scandinavia, his heart threatened to shatter. And thinking of Arthur on top of that . . . it nearly killed him. The regret. The uncertainty of it. It went straight to his lungs; his breaths began to shudder, grow shallow.

“Calm down, breathe,” Antonio whispered, still in French, rubbing his friend’s back. He’d done a lot of this in the past few days, particularly on the ship, where he held Francis’s hair back as the other Alpha retched his stomach’s contents into a bucket. (Francis had moaned, _You don’t have to do this, Toni._ To which he had replied, _Yes, I do, Your Majesty._ )

Francis took a deep breath. The guards were watching. People said he had no backbone, no power . . . and the second one was apparently true. But he did have a spine, damn them all, and he would prove it. He exhaled—still pretty shaky—and forced a self-deprecating smile for Antonio. “ _Mon dieu._ Look at me. I’m a mess.”

The Spaniard must have seen right through this attempt at making light, but he smiled generously, as he always did. “I’m a mess, too. Don’t worry. We’re both in shambles. But you look better than I do. You look like a king.”

Francis shook his head, peering up at the shadowy rafters above. He had never felt true shame before, so he thought he was feeling it now, though in actuality it was nothing more than exhaustion and embarrassment. “No, I don’t. I barely recognize myself.”

He didn’t see Antonio staring at him, hazel gaze tracing the lines of his elegant cheekbones, his stubbled jaw, his handsome nose. He didn’t see the yearning, the rising courage. He didn’t see the hopeful, breathless second of decisiveness before he finally said, “Francis, I—”

“TWO THIRDS OF THE COURT OF JARLS IS COMING!” bellowed the unmistakable voice of Mathias Køhler. “YOU TWO DAMN WELL BETTER BE BOWING!”

Francis glanced at Antonio, who had quickly schooled his features into a friendly (tortured) smile. The French Alpha sighed. What was one more humiliation? The guards, though in human form, bared their teeth meaningfully at the visitors. So Francis and Antonio abased themselves, bending at the waist. Francis had never done this before, and it felt . . . the Omegas were forced to do this . . . it felt . . . _my mate bowed to me, slaved for me_ . . . it felt . . .

Vulnerable.

Eyes on the ground, always on the ground.

Lesser. Other.

He let himself imagine having what he had done to Arthur done to himself. Someone stronger grabbing his hair. Shoving that base part into his mouth. Forcing him to suffer for their pleasure, when just the previous day he had been told, _I love you._

Now.

Now he knew what shame felt like.

“Well, well, well,” said Jarl Mathias, loudly, as he and his mate stepped into the room. Not stepped, but _stormed_ —their boots were like thunder in the large, torch-lit hall, so loud Francis’s heart skittered as they drew near. The Danish Jarl stopped close enough that Francis, still bowing, could see his boots. _Huge_ boots. How did people grow so big here? His voice made Francis jump. “How does it feel, Mr. Bonnefoy? You must be about to throw yourself off a cliff. After all, you’re an Alpha in an _Omega_ position. Whatever that means. Ugh, look at them, Lukas. I could spit.”

“Stability, Mathias.” Here was the infinitely calmer voice of the only Jarl of reasonable height, Lukas Bondevik. “Rise, Mr. Bonnefoy, Mr. Carriedo. Considering the uncertain relationship between our territories at present, I suggest you state your business here promptly.”

Francis straightened up, only to nearly bump noses with Mathias, who had leaned down to glare into his soul and growl, “Do. Not. Lie to us.”

Francis imagined what Gilbert would do if he saw this happening to his king, his friend. He would probably shove Mathias away and step between them, growling protectively. Well, he wouldn’t do that now that he thought Francis was Deformed, but the thought was still a comfort. This, and Antonio’s supportive gaze, steadied Francis enough to lift his chin and say, “We have come to join your side.”

Mathias’s brow furrowed, first in confusion, then in anger. “What is this, some kind of trap? We’re supposed to take your advice and let you lead us right into a massacre?”

Francis shook his head. He had never been a fan of the Court of Jarls, in a personal or a governmental sense. For one thing, how could you ever come to a decision with three equally important opinions to contend with? For another, how could you deal with someone as disagreeable as this Dane? Plus, the absent Alpha was unnerving, a silent giant, and Francis could never quite pronounce his name correctly.

“We aren’t here to represent anyone,” Francis said carefully. Antonio had urged caution at admitting they’d been stripped of their ranks. The Jarls would have an obligatory respect for them as royalty, but as Western civilian Alphas? In the middle of these rocky political times? Who knew what Mathias would do to them—or what he _could_ do to them. The only law Francis was certain existed in Scandinavia was against prostitution, and he didn’t think it would protect him in this situation. “We come separate from the military of Western Eurasia. We wish to help you, if we can, in any coming conflict between the West and yourselves.”

Mathias was about to speak, but Lukas touched his arm and gave him a pointed look. It seemed to remind the taller Alpha of something, because he stayed silent, letting Lukas talk first. “So, Mr. Bonnefoy. If we were to go to war on behalf of the Promega movement, who would we be fighting, if not you? Who leads in your stead?”

The thought broke his heart. His poor pup, his poor nestling. He had no doubt that they were safe, but safety and happiness were two different things. _I’ll come back to you as soon as I can, darlings._ “My Alpha son would have taken my place, but he is too young. For now, Gilbert Beilschmidt is in charge. He is the Captain of the Royal Guard.”

Now Mathias and Lukas exchanged a slightly surprised glance, and Lukas remarked, “I find it difficult to imagine him leading an entire kingdom.”

Francis had forgotten that Gilbert had accompanied him on a Northward visit once; they had left Antonio behind on that occasion. Gilbert had barely said a word the entire time—not because of a mood or anything, but because he spent the majority of his time as a wolf. While Francis and the Jarls spoke about politics and whether or not two Alphas mating was acceptable (if only Francis had thought about it for more than a second) Gilbert and the fortress guards sat on their haunches along the walls, ears pricked, watching intently. It had been rather strange, and even stranger when they walked back to their inn with Francis on two legs and Gilbert on four. Francis had been tempted to order him to reclaim his human form—if only so he could have someone to talk to—but Gilbert had seemed so happy to prance through the snow flurries that Francis didn’t have the heart to end it.

“He shouldn’t be,” Francis admitted. “But he is. He has become . . . unstable.”

Antonio shot him a worried glance, but there was no taking it back. And since Mathias had prefaced this with a warning against lying, it seemed counterproductive to withhold what he thought was a pretty important bit of truth.

Lukas had never been easy to read, but Francis thought he actually looked concerned now. “Are you saying Gilbert has overthrown your rule?”

Francis hesitated. “Overthrown is a very strong word . . .”

Mathias arched an eyebrow.

The French Alpha sighed. “Yes, I have been overthrown. I did not realize what an influence Naturalism has. When I tried to change things to align with the equality the Promegas want, Gilbert called me—”

He stopped. Mathias stepped forward, a smile spreading over his lips. “What? What did he call you?”

 _Wonderful._ As if Francis hadn’t had enough humiliations in the past few days. Dropping his gaze to the floor, he let his shoulders slump in defeat. “He called me Deformed.”

The rapture with which Mathias strode around, laughter booming off the walls, actually made tears burn at the back of Francis’s eyes. But he’d done enough crying. He would _not_ cry here, in front of these people. He simply would not.

“Ah, how does it feel, Bonnefoy?” Mathias asked, loud as ever. “Deformed. I’m glad you finally got to taste how disgusting that damned word is. Not as nice when it’s thrown back in your face, huh? Now you—”

“Stop it, Mathias.” This came from not Lukas, but Antonio. Francis looked up to see his best friend standing up to the Jarl, head tipped back to stare up at the ridiculously tall man. Antonio did not have the ease he usually did, the comfort in his skin and his clothes—he was still stuffed into the cumbersome furs like Francis, and it occurred to the French Alpha now that the Spaniard had been different for quite some time. Alfred’s first hunt stood out in his mind, when Antonio had snarled at Francis. He’d apologized profusely once they’d returned to the castle, and Francis had assured him that he understood getting caught up in the thrill of the chase, the climax of the killing bite. There was something troubling his dear companion, just as there had been something troubling Arthur. Francis had not noticed the latter until it was too late, and he’d only noticed the former by chance. Why was he so blind to the problems around him?

 _I have let others shield me from the world for too long,_ Francis thought. _I cannot continue. I must learn to be strong._

Mathias’s grin had a cruel twist to it as he glared down at Antonio. “Don’t think you’re any better than him, Carriedo. You followed and preached the same Natural nonsense. You stood beside him while he blatantly disrespected me and Lukas.” His satisfaction was overwhelmed by old anger now. “You think you don’t deserve to be punished for that? You think actions don’t have consequences? You think you can call my love for my mate Deformed and fucking get away with it?” He gave Antonio’s shoulders a shove, but not with all his strength. Still, it was enough to knock the Spaniard back a few steps. “You don’t know anything about love, you worthless—”

“Mathias!” Lukas admonished, disapproval clear.

But Antonio stood his ground. “I do know what love is,” he declared. “I admit that Naturalism led us astray, and we shouldn’t have followed it so blindly. And I apologize on my king’s behalf for calling you Deformed. Believe me, I know that actions must have consequences, and these consequences must be faced sooner or later.” His voice dipped briefly down to a hollow whisper, his gaze drifting, then hardened again. “But do not claim I don’t understand love. I . . . I feel it every day.”

He had the attention of everyone in the hall now. Lukas stepped closer to again place a calming hand on his mate’s arm, then fixed a piercing stare on Antonio and asked, “Do you mean to say that you love an Omega mate? One who is essentially your slave? You would call that love?”

The Spaniard shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t. Not for me. I don’t love my mate. Not in that way.”

Francis stared at him, but Antonio wouldn’t look. _Who do you love?_ _Who, if not Lovino?_ _Is that what has been troubling you all this time? Why didn’t you tell me? Who do you love, Toni?_

Mathias, the man who had just forbidden them from lying, asked his question aloud. “Who, then? Who do you think you love? Forgive me, but I’m very curious. Actually, I have an even better question. If you love somebody else, why didn’t you mate that person instead?”

Antonio’s cheeks darkened. “Because I—I couldn’t mate him. Because . . .” He took a deep breath. “He’s an Alpha.”

_Oh, god._

Antonio finally turned his head to look at Francis. His eyes held terror, but also relief, at the secret’s release, and they were warmed by the same loyalty and devotion they’d always been. “I’m sorry, Francis,” he murmured. “I had to say it. I had to tell you, or I was going to lose my mind. I love you.”

Francis could only stare at him, dumbstruck. Every time Antonio touched his back, his hand, helped him dress, fixed his hair . . . when he took it upon himself to train the Omegas, to arrange the weddings . . . every time Francis looked over and found hazel eyes looking back at him, lingering . . . Even when they were children, Antonio’s joy at pretending to be an Omega for Francis. Or the Spaniard’s tense smile when he saw Arthur lying with Francis’s child, the child Antonio could never give him. Such injustice, such jealousy, and yet right by Francis’s side Antonio had stayed.

The signs had been everywhere, but Francis had been blind.

 _Or_ , he finally let himself think, _perhaps I was just too afraid to open my eyes._ Afraid that, if he knew for certain how his advisor felt, he might feel the same way. A Deformed High Alpha. Imagine that.

Francis felt like laughing. Or fainting.

Lukas’s dark blue eyes were blank as ever, and for once Mathias’s were, too. The Dane took a moment to find a response. “Huh. Well. That’s ironic.”

Antonio ducked his head, blushing fiercely in a way that reminded Francis of Lovino. Oh, what a tangled mess they’d gotten themselves into. Trying to solve it made Francis want to lie down for the better part of a century. Instead, he cleared his throat and said in a light voice he didn’t recognize, “If that’s all the delving into our personal lives you would like to do, what is your answer to my proposal? Will you allow us to join your side?” He doubted they would throw him out, but he wouldn’t put it past them to toss him into a gaol cell until the conflict had been resolved. “What say you?”

Mathias’s lip curled up a bit, appreciative of how forward Francis was being but not appreciative of the man himself. He looked to Lukas, who stared at Francis for a long, long while. Those eyes would be a lovely shade of blue if they were not so dark and empty. At length, he said, “Yes, we will accept your assistance. We will go to the West for Omega equality, and if their forces will not hear us, we will be at war.”

Mathias nodded to a pair of guards who immediately dashed out of the fortress to spread the word. If gossip spread like a virus in the West, it traveled like a bullet in the North. By nightfall, everyone would know what had transpired in the jarls’ fortress. Everyone except one Omega.

Francis cleared his throat again. “Thank you. Now, before we begin our planning . . .” He felt a mixture of excitement and dread quiver through his capricious heart. “May I see Arthur?”

 

. . .

 

“Mathias or Berwald?” Feliciano asked, smiling over his mug of mead.

“Definitely Berwald,” Tino replied, with the same smile on his own thin lips. “He’s much more handsome. Mathias’s hair looks like a bird nest. Don’t tell him I said that.”

Both of them giggled. Even Emil had to chuckle.

“I say Berwald,” he said. “I’ve seen Mathias naked. At least Berwald has the benefit of mystery.”

“But you’re biased, Mr. Bondevik,” Feliciano protested.

“And Tino isn’t?” His exasperation had Feliciano and Tino dissolving into giggles again. They were silly with mead, but Emil was sober. Normally, he wouldn’t take part in Alpha-comparing games, but he had found himself enjoying it for whatever reason. It went without saying that he liked Tino—yes, fine, he _loved_ him, but that went without saying even more because Emil had never said it—and Feliciano was good company, too. Very different from Lovino; they hadn’t had a serious conversation yet, but that hadn’t turned out to be a bad thing. Emil was pleasantly surprised to discover that taking a break from science and introspection could be beneficial. (What was that word . . . oh, yes— _fun_.)

“I like Berwald better, too, from the way you described him,” Feliciano told TIno. “He reminds me of my Ludwig.”

Emil hoped Feli’s faith in his mate was not misplaced. If they did have an ally in the West, one never knew—that could be the deciding factor of a battle. If Feliciano was simply infatuated, it would be a heartbreaking moment of truth for the little Italian. For his sake, Emil hoped Ludwig was a good man. _Unlike his king._

Think of the devil.

A knock on the door. The crowd drawn by the Promegas had gone home, the novelty having mostly worn off, and the innkeeper was sweeping the rooms upstairs, so Emil opened the door. A guard stood there with two Alphas Emil had not seen for years.

“Francis Bonnefoy,” he said, prompting a gasp from Feliciano. “What are you doing here?”

The French Alpha looked—worried. And tired, dark spots under his eyes, cheeks hollow. He and his Spanish advisor were looking everywhere but each other. Emil could have stared at them for an hour and would have been unable to pick out all of the emotions that clouded their weary eyes.

The guard who had guided them here gave Emil a condensed version of the chat in the fortress, complete with the declaration of love that had both Western Alphas blushing at the floor. “We were told to stay here tonight and return to the Court in the morning,” Francis said, without looking up. “We would like to see our mates.”

Emil nodded to dismiss the guard, closed the door behind the newcomers, and crossed his arms over his chest. Budding romance between Westerners should have been the least of his concerns, and yet here he was in the center of an ever-worsening web. “I assume Lovino is your mate, Mr. Carriedo.”

The Spaniard nodded as if it shamed him.

 _What poor excuses for men_ , Emil thought. “You can see him if he’ll speak to you. But you cannot see Arthur.”

Francis looked up, eyes wide, like a pup denied a bone. “Why not?”

“The Jarls didn’t tell you? He is in Heat.”

“Then I must see him,” Francis said. “He needs me—”

“Absolutely not,” Emil snapped, just short of a growl. “He cannot consent to you right now. You _will not_ rape him.”

Now Francis looked like he might burst into hysterics. “Of course not! I-I just want to soothe him . . .” But he could see this was not his place, and he wisely fell silent. He was an Alpha in an inn full of Omegas, in a territory where being an Alpha meant no more than being blond. He was not special by default here. He would just have to deal with that.

Tino hopped up. “I’ll go get Lovino.” He hurried down into the basement.

Emil directed Francis and Antonio to sit on the other side of the table the Omegas had been chatting at. Feliciano waved to them both. “Hello, Antonio, sir. Hello, King Francis, sir.”

Francis and Antonio gave weak smiles. “Hello, Feli,” Antonio said.

“You don’t have to call us _sir_ ,” Francis added.

Feliciano shook his head. “Woops! This will be really hard. There are a lot of things to remember not to do. No _sir_ , no bowing.” He was too hazy with mead to really process who he was talking to, or the news from the guard. “It’s easier for Alphas, they just have to remember not to be mean.”

Even the journey to equality wasn’t equal. Who knew. Before anyone could react to this, footsteps thumped furiously up the stairs and Lovino came into the room like the hurricane he was. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He was looking at Antonio, so it was the Spaniard who replied, “We came to help however we can—”

“Tino told me that much.” Lovino stood on the other side of the table, glaring across at his mate. “I _mean_ what are you doing here, like we _want_ you here? We don’t. I don’t. You wanted to see me. Great. You’ve seen me. Bye.” The words flowed out like a swarm of bees, his finger jabbing at Antonio as he started in again, “Just because you’ve come here doesn’t mean I’m gonna forgive you. You’ll be damn lucky if I ever do, you fucking bastard. Do you even know what you put me through?”

Antonio’s face twisted into a grimace of guilt and grief. “I’m so sorry. I was drunk the first night, and—and after that, I just . . . I just let myself go—”

“Shut your goddamn tomato-eating mouth,” Lovino snarled, slamming his hand down on the table, then threw a cup for good measure. It sailed just over Antonio’s head and, because it was made of tin and not glass, bounced off the wall and clattered to the floor without much issue. “Every night, you made me hate myself for being an Omega. Every. Night. Every _day_. Do you have any fucking concept of what it feels like to hate yourself for how your damn body was born?”

Lovino’s voice was shaking with rage and misery, but Antonio was truly coming apart. He looked up at the man he had taken to be his mate, his hazel eyes filling with tears. They streamed down his cheeks as his voice broke; it took him two more tries to finally force out the aching reply, just one cracked word: _“Yes.”_

He knew. He knew every time he saw Francis kissing Arthur.

And, now, so did Lovino. Lovino knew.

Lovino and Antonio stared at each other, both of their hearts on fire, both wounded by different sides of the same blade. There was no forgiveness from the Omega, but there was none expected by the Alpha. There was only the apology, the admittance of wrongdoing, and the acceptance of whatever punishment might be given.

Lovino felt the inferno within him blaze to its peak, then—what? Was it starting to subside? Of course it was. He couldn’t live in bitter fury forever. It would eat a hole in his heart until there was nothing left. It would win, and he would lose. So he would not do that. He wouldn’t do anything to punish Antonio. He wouldn’t hit him or shout at him anymore. He would just let Antonio have his guilt. That was a worse punishment than anything Lovino could come up with, after all.

So Lovino stood there, hands going numb from being clenched into tight fists at his sides, until the fire had died down to a manageable bed of coals. Then he took his seat next to his wide-eyed little brother and turned to Emil. His voice was deadly calm, and he loved it. “I would appreciate if you could go down and help Arthur finish his food. I was just getting him to eat when these two showed up.”

Emil met his gaze for a bit longer than strictly necessary, trying to see if all was truly well. _Go,_ Lovino tried to say with his eyes. _I won’t attack anyone._ Emil pressed his lips together, considering, then said, “Tino, perhaps you and Feliciano should go upstairs. I suspect this conversation will be quite private. These three have a lot that needs to be discussed.”

Feliciano was obedient and Tino was used to being asked to leave the room, so they retreated without fuss. Emil gave Lovino one last appraising glance before disappearing down into the basement.

And then it was just the three of them. The fallen king, the walking broken heart, and the teenage revolutionary.

“Let’s not waste time,” Lovino said. His stomach felt strange, and he realized it was fluttering with glee. He was dominant over these Alphas. The only thing that would sweeten his triumph was if Gilbert were here, too. _He’s the true enemy now._ Who were they kidding? _He always was._ Lovino remembered those damn German fingers in his hair, hauling him out to the street. _Bastard. Damned bastard._ He didn’t have enough hateful words to get across how much he despised Gilbert and all that he represented. But that would come soon. That battle would be fought in time. For now, he had these two fools to deal with.

Lovino kicked his feet up onto the table, crossing them at the ankle and leaning back in his chair. “So. Bonnefoy.” (He just called an Alpha by his last name!) “You’re going to tell me what you did to Arthur. I know you did something. Did you hit him? Rape him? I know you like doing that, being an Alpha and all.”

Antonio sniffled, wiping the last of his tears away, and looked to Francis. _God, what does he see in him?_ Lovino wondered. He might feel bad for the forbidden love, if Antonio deserved sympathy, which he didn’t in the slightest. _They deserve each other. Both pricks._

Francis took a deep breath in, then out. Lovino thought he might tell him to put his feet down, but the French Alpha knew precisely how much authority he had here: none whatsoever. “I didn’t hit him. I didn’t—rape him. Just . . .” He lowered his head a bit, blue eyes dark with shame. “It was his mouth. In that way, yes, I forced myself on him. I’ve never regretted anything so much.” He actually closed his eyes now. Like he was _that_ torn up about it.

Lovino scowled at him, disgusted. “Why? Why did you do it?”

Francis didn’t open his eyes right away. “Because it’s what I’ve always been allowed to do. It was just . . . the way things had always gone. I didn’t think about it. Not until afterward.”

“Right.” Lovino turned his attention to Antonio, keeping his words brief and hard. “And you did it to me because you—what did you call it? You _let yourself go_? So you’re saying you didn’t think about it, either. Yeah?”

Both Alphas stared at him, exhausted. Lovino could just see them as wolves, ears and tails drooping, eyes forlorn, whimpering softly. _Poor puppies._

Lovino scoffed at them. About time they went through something difficult. _Now try living as a slave for your whole life, and we’ll be even._ “Here’s my advice to you. Stop thinking with your dicks.” He took a sip of the mead his brother had been drinking. “Now. About Arthur. I don’t think he wants to be your mate anymore, Bonnefoy.”

Francis blinked, startled. No one would ever expect such blunt phrasing, even in this context. “I know he’s angry with me, and I don’t blame him, but I wanted to try to make it work. Until . . .” He glanced at Antonio, who could only gaze back at him apologetically.

“Yeah, well, Arthur and I mated,” Lovino said. (He and Arthur really needed to talk about that, as soon as possible. Although Arthur _had_ agreed to it, which was more than he’d done to Francis.) “Several times.”

The French Alpha pressed his fingertips into his temples. Slowly, he said, “You mated with my wife. The mother of my son.”

Lovino lifted his chin, glaring into the Alpha’s eyes. _You think you’re better than me? Let’s go. I could take you._

Francis’s gaze flared, and he actually started to stand up, but Antonio put a hand on his shoulder, trying to mollify. “Until we can talk to Arthur, we won’t know anything for sure. So . . . I guess we’ll just have to wait.”

Lovino thumped his feet to the floor and stood up lazily. “Yep, we’ll have to wait.” _For Arthur to pick me._ _He asked me to do this revolution with him, not you. He said I was right about you. And after all of this? What would he want you for?_

Lovino drank the last of the mead and set the cup down harder than he needed to just see if it would make Antonio jump, and it did. “I’m going back down to see Arthur. You two should go have a nap or something. You look tired.” This said with mock pity before he turned on his heel and left them sitting there, ignoring the fact that he was just the same as them, a man who did not fit in, a heart with love put on hold.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for the delay, school is (mostly) to blame. Before you ask, there will be an epilogue after this. Thank you for reading, and uh... damn. I apologize again, in advance.

“Take not pride in drawing blood

Find not joy in giving pain.

Simply raise your head high

Lift your blade to the sky

And cease not until your enemy is slain.”

_—old rhyme of Scandinavia_

 

For the next five days of Arthur’s Heat, he slept.

Often his eyes were open, he drank, he even ate, and he moaned and rolled on his mattress, but to him, it was like sleep. He dreamt, but he remembered none of his dreams. He heard talking, but he couldn’t process the words being said, nor the identity of the voice that said them. He had no concept of where or who he was. He only knew that he was an Omega in Heat, and he longed for—would die for—and Alpha to soothe him. To fuck him, mate him. Knot him, stretch him. But no Alpha came, so on burned his Heat. Between bouts of delirious semi-consciousness, Arthur slept.

He slept while Francis and Antonio plotted battle strategy with Mathias and Berwald.

He slept while Lovino and Emil discussed which laws the West would take from Scandinavia, which equal customs, and what punishment should be given to Alphas who had spent the past however many years forcing their mates into bed.

He slept while his son, an ocean away, whimpered through the night for a mother who would not come.

He slept.

And then, one day, he woke.

His first thought was, _Is it nighttime?_ Because the tiny room was lit only by the dying flicker of an inch of candle. But once his eyes had adjusted and his brain caught up to him, he remembered— _I’m in the cellar of an inn, in Scandinavia._ _I’m here for the Promegas. The Jarls are deciding if they’ll help us._ Oh, how he hoped they would say yes. Mathias and Berwald already had. Would the forces of two Jarls be enough to win a war? _There doesn’t have to be a war,_ he reminded himself. _I have to try and make Francis and Antonio and Gilbert see reason._ He suspected Francis would be the easiest to convince. Once he had the king on his side, the other two would follow, as would the rest of the kingdom. Because who would ever dream of defying the High Alpha?

 _Well,_ Arthur thought with a faint smile. _Me, apparently._

His smile turned to a grimace when he sat up, feeling the slick and sweat on his skin. He wasn’t even wearing a shirt, and his trousers were just a mess. The blankets on the straw mattress were tangled up and sprawled, some hanging on the floor, partially curled around Arthur’s legs. He vaguely recalled nesting, but once the full waves of Heat came in, the nest tended to fall by the wayside. An instinct to make a comfy place to mate could only go so far when an Omega’s skin was prickling and the only way to find relief was to roll around.

 _If I was an Alpha, we could have been done with this by now,_ Arthur thought. _We wouldn’t have had to wait for Heat._ He pushed the negativity away as quickly as it had come. He couldn’t get discouraged _now._ They were so close, he could feel it. There was light at the end of the tunnel, he felt certain.

He got to his feet—much easier said than done. His muscles were sore, his legs a bit shaky. He felt like he’d done some serious exercise recently, but all he’d done was lie in bed, so why . . . oh.

_Lovino._

He remembered. Not clearly, but he remembered. Lovino’s hands squeezing his hips, his fist pushing inside him, both of them rutting against each other like desperate animals. Arthur’s cheeks turned pink, imagining it, but he felt something darker than embarrassment, something like discomfort. He saw those hands on his body, but he couldn’t remember how he had felt at the time. Well, he remembered how he felt, horny as all hell, but—oh, how strange it was! He couldn’t recall thinking, _Yes, Lovino will mate me. I want this._ He knew he must have thought it at the time, but it was lost in the haze of Heat.

Which meant he didn’t remember saying yes.

That was what he was feeling. The something like discomfort—it was betrayal. Such an evil-sounding word. It wasn’t _exactly_ betrayal. But disappointment, certainly. Arthur had undoubtedly _imagined_ mating Lovino, had even begun entertaining it as a real possibility, but he would not have done it during Heat. Not for the first time. Arthur couldn’t remember, and that in itself was cause for despair. And he would not have done it while Francis waited across the sea, still his mate, still his husband. And certainly not while they were on the cusp of revolution. This was probably the worst possible time for Lovino to do this to them. To him.

Maybe betrayal was a fitting word, after all.

Arthur opened the door, taking a deep inhale. Ah, clean air. He had more thoughts in his mind than hairs on his head, but right now his priority was physical needs first, emotional wants second. He glanced around the cellar. It felt like ages since he’d last seen these dingy floors and blackened torches, but it had only been a week. He started toward the stairwell, only to make it halfway across the room before Emil walked down into view.

The Scandinavian Omega blinked in surprise. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kirkland. Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t nearly as self-conscious of his body as he’d been before mating Francis, but for some reason he felt uncivil addressing Emil while topless. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bondevik.” His voice was a bit raspy. “How are you?”

Emil gave the ghost of a smile. “I’m quite well, thank you. I suspect you’d like to wash up?”

“Yes, please.” He hadn’t felt so grimy since his winter Heats in the village.

Once Arthur had washed in the basin Emil brought to him, and dressed in clean clothes, he ventured up the stairs. It had been an entire week since he last climbed these steps. How guilty he felt for that lost time, a week he would never get back. A week he could have spent with his friends, or with his children. _I’m so sorry, Alfred._ How much time of an Omega’s life was wasted by Heat? How many years did one lose, when all was tallied up at death? The thought was depressing. And Alphas never have to deal with it. It broke through his defenses: _can people who are so different truly be equal?_

Mentally, he gave himself a slap. Of course they could. Scandinavia was proof of that.

At the top of the stairs, Arthur blinked, eyes briefly sensitive to the sunlight from the windows, more light than he’d had all week. When his vision returned, he saw four people looking at him.

Emil, arms crossed.

Lovino, eyes narrowed.

Antonio, brow furrowed.

And Francis, a slow, bittersweet smile spreading over his lips.

Arthur was tempted to pinch himself. His mind simply could not comprehend what his eyes were telling it. There was no way Francis could be here. Francis was in the West, at home, comforting Matthew and Alfred in Arthur’s absence. Arthur had not planned on seeing Francis until he returned to the West and they negotiated the terms of peaceful future. (Blackmailing someone with the threat of war was better than actually going to war, as far as Arthur was concerned.) So, no, Francis Bonnefoy could not possibly be here.

And yet, there he was. He spoke with a rougher voice than Arthur remembered, as if his throat was a little raw. Arthur had forgotten how handsome his voice was (and his jaw, and his eyes . . .) and he was taken aback when Francis said, “I know I am probably the last person you want to see, but I am very glad to see you, _mon_ . . .” He trailed off into uncertainty, then finished instead, “Arthur.”

Lovino shot Francis a death glare. Antonio looked miserably at the floor.

Emil just stared at them all from his place off to the side, impassive as ever.

Arthur began to search for his voice, and was surprised to find it readily available; he spoke too loudly by accident, having expected to revert to his submissive Omega murmur. _I’m different. It’s changing!_ “Why are you and Antonio here?”

Francis inclined his head slightly. “We know of the Promega movement you have begun. The story is being told among Omegas and Alphas alike in the West. Ludwig began the telling in secret, and I know my kingdom. Everyone will know soon, if they do not already.”

(Antonio gave a small, knowing nod here. For all his faults, he was quite fond of the people of Western Eurasia. Fierce, daft creatures, they were.)

“We came to join your side of the fight,” Francis went on. “I did try, after we learned of your departure. I tried to change things. And Gilbert, ah, overthrew me.”

Arthur stared at his mate, overwhelmed. He couldn’t decide which piece of information to focus on first. People were telling his story? The thought made excitement and pride course through him, lightning in his veins. Perhaps his Heat hadn’t been a complete loss, then—even if he wasn’t out there, his story was. If that gave Omegas hope, or made Alphas think about what they were doing, then Arthur was happy. And he was immensely grateful to Ludwig, for protecting their secret and supporting the cause. But now Francis and Antonio were supporting it, too? And _what_ was that about Gilbert?

Arthur had to pull out a chair and sit down. His legs hadn’t found their full strength yet, and this was too much for them.

Lovino, seeing his distress, asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”

Arthur pressed two fingertips to his temple. Come to think of it, he was probably on his way to a dehydration headache. “Some tea, please. If they have tea here.”

Arthur and Lovino looked to Emil for confirmation, and the Scandinavian Omega replied, “Yes, there’s some in the kitchen. Through there.” He nodded in the direction of the kitchen, clearly unwilling to leave the Westerners without supervision.

“I’ll make it,” Antonio offered. He didn’t seem very taken by the idea of making tea, but, then again, he looked like he hadn’t smiled in months.

“Thank you, Antonio,” Arthur said, with just the hint of a polite smile. He was proud of himself for not saying _sir,_ but he sort of wished he’d thought to say Mr. Carriedo. It sounded much more professional.

The Spaniard went off to fix a cup of tea.

Arthur returned to his previous train of thought. “Now, what on earth do you mean? Gilbert overthrew you?”

Francis didn’t meet his gaze. “He thinks I’ve lost my mind. He called me Deformed. That’s what I am, for going against Naturalism.”

Francis and Antonio had turned against Naturalism! Two out of three! Arthur cleared his throat, trying to remain serious through his joy. “So your friend turned against you—and you just allowed that? You’re the High Alpha, and one man took your crown? How?”

Francis opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it once more. “It . . . It was so unexpected, and Gilbert has the Guard on his side.”

“The Guard,” Arthur echoed, dubious. It seemed to him that the people of the West placed too much power on the guards. They had no presence at all in the smaller villages, and only barely in the other cities. They were not a policing force, after all, just a group of Alphas charged with protecting the royals and ensuring the city remained a safe place. It was true that the Guard was very well-trained and strong, but if every single civilian Alpha in the West teamed up against them? Arthur thought a different story would be told. But, in times of war, the Guard relied on those civilians, and gave them great rewards when the battles were won. Arthur wondered if Gilbert had given the summons for all able Alphas to come to the capital. In any case, the less blood spilled, the better.

“But you’re the king,” Arthur said, bewildered. “You’re higher than Gilbert. Why should he have enough sway to dethrone you?”

Francis lifted his hands helplessly, palm-up, a surrender. “I could do nothing. Even if I wanted to, I just—” He dropped his hands, eyes clouding with shame at the memory. “I froze.”

Arthur looked at his mate. He was a ghost of the man he had first laid eyes on in the grand hall of the castle. His hair lacked its usual shine, his eyes had dark smudges beneath them, and he just didn’t carry himself the same way. He no longer squared his shoulders and looked down his nose at people. In fact, with his shoulders drooping and his head inclined, he looked more like an Omega than anything.

Francis Bonnefoy had never needed to be brave on his own. He’d always had Antonio to help him behind the scenes, or Gilbert to loom at his side in public. Or, in the case of the wedding, he had alcohol to defend himself, but when it came to logic or even force? He couldn’t do it.

Arthur couldn’t help it. He felt bad for Francis.

Antonio returned with his tea, and Arthur took a sip—it was pretty terrible, though he couldn’t be sure if that was Antonio or Scandinavia’s failing—before clearing his throat. “So. Let me just make sure I know where we all stand. Francis, you and Antonio are on our side? You admit that Naturalism is toxic?”

Francis and Antonio nodded. “It is not a healthy system,” Francis said. “It has caused unthinkable pain. I hate to even consider it.”

“It traps everyone,” Antonio added. “Not just Omegas.”

“Oh, shut _up_ ,” Lovino snapped, teeth flashing in a sneer. “What Alphas are trapped? How does it trap you? Must be tough, forcing someone into bed every night.”

Antonio’s face looked much like it used to when Lovino showed attitude, unsure how to handle it. “Alphas like me are trapped, Lovino. Alphas who—who love other Alphas aren’t allowed to be themselves. I call that being trapped. You should understand that, after what’s happened between you and Arthur—”

Lovino pointed at Antonio, gaze burning through the Spaniard. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ compare yourself to me. Don’t even fucking suggest that. I actually love the person—”

“But he was in Heat,” Francis protested, eyes narrowing with his own stifled rage. “As Emil—as _Mr. Bondevik_ says. An Omega cannot consent while in Heat. And you went ahead and mated him anyway. That seems rather hypocritical, does it not? You being so adamant about giving a voice to Omegas. And you took Arthur’s voice away.”

Lovino’s expression held enough contempt to wilt an entire garden of flowers. “At least I fucking _asked_ first, you goddamn—”

“Excuse me.” Arthur’s tone was chillier than he’d intended, but he was glad for it; the last thing he wanted was to sound hysterical. “Neither of you should be talking about taking my voice away. I’m right here. I’ll speak for myself, if I can get a moment.”

Lovino, Francis, and Antonio fixed their attention on him. Francis was the only one who looked apologetic. Antonio had no intimate concern for Arthur—his heart’s priority was Francis. And Lovino’s face held only fading ferocity, leftover hatred for the Alphas he’d been arguing with.

Arthur looked at them all, letting the silence draw on until all he heard was his heartbeat. “You know,” he said, his low voice reflecting the hairline fractures in his heart, “I think we’ve found a bit of equality here. Because sitting here, listening to the lot of you argue without a single scrap of compassion? You’ve proven to me that Omegas can be just as cruel as Alphas. I can’t see where one of you ends and the other begins.” Lovino started to speak, but Arthur held up a hand. “Please, let me finish. I haven’t had a say in anything for the past week, and that’s no one’s fault, but I have a few things to get off my chest.”

First, he turned to Antonio. “You love an Alpha? May I take a wild guess and say it’s Francis?”

Antonio’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“The way you looked at him. And the way you looked at me.” Arthur’s voice was shockingly steady. He knew he should have been feeling pain in his heart, the agony of being torn two uncertain ways, but for whatever reason he was numb to it right now. He had a feeling it would come later, a delayed reaction; it was like his heart was in shock. “I think I always had a suspicion, if we’re being honest. You always seemed very Omega-like.”

Antonio started to hug his arms around himself, then must have realized that this just proved Arthur’s point and dropped his hands. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” he said; he had never looked so tormented. “I don’t want to steal anything from you. I mean, anyone.” He avoided Francis’s gaze. The web could not be any more tangled.

“Don’t worry about that,” Arthur said. He turned his attention to Francis. “Where do we stand from your point of view?”

Francis looked surprised to be asked his opinion. “I came with intentions to apologize to you and, if you will have me, do my best to make up to you all the pain I have caused. But now that Antonio and Lovino have told their . . . secrets.” He shrugged helplessly, but there was genuine love in his gaze. “I would be with you, if you wanted that. In a heartbeat.”

The words were a dagger through Antonio’s heart. It was more painful for them to watch him blink back tears than it was for the man himself. Because, though it was the worst news he could hear, it was not a surprise. He’d been waiting for it to officially happen, the rejection. But there was one unkillable part of him that had been hopeful, and that was what bled now.

Arthur spared Antonio a second of sympathy before telling Francis, “Before you forced yourself on me that night, I would have accepted that apology. But I don’t know if I can trust you now. Even if we spent the rest of our lives together, there would always be that little thought in the back of my mind. I don’t want to live like that.”

Francis’s face fell. It hurt Arthur to see it, so he moved to the other point of the triangle. Lovino had the good grace to look worried.

“What I said could just as easily apply to you, Lovino,” Arthur went on. “I was in Heat when you did what you did. I can’t remember saying yes or no to you. As far as I’m concerned, it’s like you didn’t ask at all.” He didn’t say the words in a harsh way, but he didn’t have to. They were crucifying no matter how they were delivered. “I’m not saying I don’t love you. You are very dear to me. You and Francis both are.”

Francis lifted his head, breath held. Lovino only stared, eyes round, concerned prey. How powerful love was, to wrap these two up so tightly. How wicked love was, to trick the heart into thinking nothing else mattered. Arthur sighed. Between Francis and Lovino, Antonio, Alfred and Matthew, Feli and Ludwig—how many hearts had he hurt through all this? A better question: how many would be broken by the end?

“I’m going to be frank,” Arthur told them, feeling three times his age. “I don’t know which of you I would rather be with, and any choice I make won’t be made today. It won’t be made tomorrow, either. This will take time. A lot of time. Time to think, and time to forgive.” He took a deep breath. “But right now we have something more important to worry about. The future of the West is bigger than any romantic nonsense.”

Now the trio before him shared an identical look of shock. It was unheard of, after all, for an Omega to push love aside, especially when it was love their own heart was involved in. Even Lovino hadn’t done it. But Arthur Bonnefoy just had.

Emil stepped over to him, a small smile of admiration on his lips. “The boats are readied, Mr. Kirkland. The Court of Jarls has made their plans. They will fight for your Promegas. All that remains is the rally.”

Arthur was grateful for this; all he wanted was something to think about that wasn’t this mess of potential partners. He stood, set down his barely drunk tea, and put on an all-business smile. “Excellent. Shall we go?”

 

. . .

 

Mathias had been just about to start the rally when he saw Emil leading over the rest of the Westerners. The Court of Jarls was gathered at the docks, along with a good majority of Mathias’s wolves (Lukas and Berwald’s were boarding ships a few hours’ walk away). Everywhere were Alphas, carrying last-minute weapons and ammunition onto the boats, talking in Danish and Norwegian, all contributing to the air of excitement. They had not been raised to dread battle; it was a fact of life, and it was better to run toward a fight with courage than with fear.

“About time you got here,” Mathias called as the Westerners approached. “We were about to leave without you.”

The sea tossed a cold breeze at them, making Lovino and Antonio cringe, but Mathias just inhaled deeply, a wide satisfied smile on his face. The sun was shining, the clouds were fluffy. What a beautiful day to go to battle. (Diplomatic mission.)

“Where are Lukas and Berwald?” the English Omega asked. Of all the Westerners, he looked the least mopey. The other three might’ve burst into tears at any moment.

Mathias pointed out Lukas, standing at the bow of the biggest ship, watching over them with the same dark, deep eyes as ever. He wasn’t worried about fighting, either, but he wasn’t excited like Mathias. He was too obsessed with stability these days (it hadn’t been a priority for him in their wild youth, Mathias remembered fondly). “Berwald is with Tino and Feliciano on another ship.”

Lovino looked over sharply. “What ship? Where?”

“In Berwald’s territory. You probably don’t have time to fly there. Don’t worry about it, Mr. Vargas.”

“No. I’m going. I fly faster than you think.” He glanced at Arthur, pain in his eyes. “It’ll be better if I cross on the other ship.”

Before anyone could protest, Lovino spread his arms into wings and flapped away from them.

Mathias tipped his head back to watch. “He’s going the wrong way.”

Emil rolled his eyes. “I’ll guide him.” He touched Arthur’s shoulder, and a silent _go well_ passed between them. Then Emil was a puffin, shooting through the cold air after the red kite.

Mathias nudged Francis with his elbow. “Why so sad, Mr. Bonnefoy? Do we have some drama? Wish I could help, but we only do political revolutions.”

Francis just stared up at him, too exhausted for anger.

Mathias shook his head. “You two better start to look alive. You don’t win a battle with that look on your face. Think of all the people we’re gonna help. Think of all the Omegas who’ll grow up happy because of what we’re about to do. You have a nestling, don’t you? Think about him.”

Slowly but surely, a small smile brightened Francis’s face. Arthur smiled, too, even though his mind was still following Lovino. None of this was fair. But he was putting other people before himself. A whole generation, multiple generations. Surely he got a pass for that?

“We’re gonna bring all our wolves with us to meet Gilbert,” Mathias told Arthur. “He’ll see the ships and summon his forces, and that’s alright. He won’t outnumber us. You’ll get to try out your diplomacy, but it’ll probably be on a battlefield. And from there, well—if it goes wrong, just fly.”

Arthur nodded, mind racing. “Alright. But I want to help fight, if it comes to that. I’m sure Lovino does, too.”

Mathias raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It’s not my job to order you around. But if I were you, I would just stay out of the way. You aren’t trained, and instinct and luck will only get you so far.”

Mathias didn’t hear Arthur’s response, because a nearby Alpha was calling to him in Danish, “Jarl Bondevik says begin the rally already!”

Mathias looked to the ship bow again, and there was Lukas, shaking his head slowly back and forth in the age-old exasperation: _You take too long! You talk too much!_ The Dane grinned, blew a kiss to his mate, then advised Arthur, “You may want to cover your ears.”

Arthur put his hands over his ears obediently, because if there was one piece of advice he was willing to take from this loud jarl, it was when to cover your ears.

Mathias shifted to his wolf form in a graceful ripple. He was long-legged and large, his ruff thicker than any Arthur had ever witnessed, and his coat was a lovely pale cream color. He threw his head back and let a high, piercing howl surge upward. It was loud, but Arthur didn’t see why he had to cover his ears.

And then every surrounding Alpha fell into their wolf forms and joined in the rallying call. It was a deafening war cry, this wolf song of anticipation, of excitement, of unity. Arthur’s Omega ears could not understand the meanings hidden within the bays and howls and barks, but he felt something stirring vaguely in his chest, the same sort of thing he’d felt when he heard howls while pregnant with Alfred. He didn’t understand, and yet he just knew. These howls, despite how clamorous and discordant they seemed, meant: _together strong! Together!_

Francis and Antonio were the only Alphas who did not immediately turn at the first howl, but they were clearly itching to do it. Arthur wasn’t sure if he was expected to give them permission or if there was some Alpha reason for their lack of contribution. Around them, the wolves began to play with each other between howls, bowing and pouncing and racing and wrestling. They looked like a lot of overgrown puppies. Even Mathias got involved, bowling over other wolves, though then again perhaps that wasn’t very surprising.

Arthur stepped closer to his mate—strange to think of him that way, but stranger not to—and asked, “What is this for?”

Francis waved a hand as if gesturing to some invisible, abstract concept. It was an old habit that comforted Arthur. Lovino was a moody teenager, and Antonio was trying to hide his misery, but Francis seemed to be feeling better. “It is for morale,” he replied. “Bring the pack together for a team effort, you know. We do it before large hunts, as well.”

Arthur could wrap his head around that, at least. “Why don’t you . . . partake?”

Francis and Antonio exchanged a glance and said in unison, “It isn’t our pack.”

Arthur felt a small fraction of his heart go out to them. They were surrounded by wolves strengthening their bonds, their pack morale, but every howl of _together!_ just made them feel more apart. _There,_ Arthur thought. _Now you know how Omegas feel._

There was a screech; Arthur looked up to see ospreys and eagles and owls swooping over the sea of white and grey and tawny wolves. _Omegas like me,_ Arthur thought, heart swelling. _Like Lovino._ A shadow passed over Arthur, and he stepped back in surprise when a large black bird alighted in front of him. Never had he seen a bird so peculiar—even stranger than a puffin. This bird had long thin legs, a curved long neck, and a very long red beak, in which rolled sheets of paper were clasped. This was a black stork, and it shifted back to none other than Roderich Edelstein. He wore a long indigo coat that was not at all suited to the chill, but he didn’t seem to mind. He had three pink spots on his white face: one for each cheekbone and one on the tip of his nose. He waved his rolled-up papers at Arthur and declared, “It is finished!”

Arthur blinked, eyes flicking to Francis and Antonio; both Alphas were looking at Roderich with a mixture of guilt and wonder, for the Austrian Omega looked more ethereal than usual out here. He looked more like a painting of a man than a real one. Seeing him among these beasts was like a dream.

“Yes, I see them,” Roderich said, without even glancing at the ex-royals. “They cannot affect me right now. I have finished my first piece in years. It is done, Arthur!” He actually grinned, though a bit tentative, like he wasn’t sure an expression of intense delight could fit on his face. “You inspired me. So I named it for your cause.” He caressed the sheets like the skin of a lover. “ _The Promega Sonata._ I will play it when we see victory.”

Arthur found himself grinning back. “I am honored, Mr. Edelstein. Thank you so much.” He was tempted to hug Roderich, but something told him he wasn’t the type to enjoy hugging anyone who wasn’t his mate. Speaking of. “Where is Elizabeta?”

Roderich scanned the wolves briefly before pointing out a light brown one, smaller than the rest but howling and playing with just as much vigorous spirit. His dark violet gaze softened, so warm in this land of cold. “She is ready to fight. She is so strong.” He turned to look at Francis and Antonio, mouth shrinking. “She was ready to fight the pair of you, but here you are. Why?”

“We are on the same side,” Francis told him. “And before anything else is said, let me offer an apology. You are not Deformed, and I never should have said you were.”

Roderich scoffed. “Your apology will not be accepted until we have justice.” He looked the fallen king up and down, eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. “Do you even know what Gilbert did to us?”

Francis and Antonio exchanged another look, this one troubled. How long had Gilbert been unstable? Neither of them could remember. No one had been paying close enough attention. Antonio had been obsessed with Francis, and Francis had been obsessed with himself. And now they were paying the price.

The wolves began to flow onto the ships. That was what their loping and climbing became when they moved together, not many beings but one entity flowing.

Roderich shook his head. “I will tell you. But not right now. We will be trampled.”

Arthur jumped when he felt a wet nose on his hand, but it was only Mathias tugging on his sleeve. The cream-coated jarl led the Westerners through the pack—they parted around him instinctively—to the bow of the ship. Arthur stood there, beside two jarls and a fallen king, the cold wind blowing at his back, urging them onward, into the future.

 

. . .

 

The news came just as Gilbert was tucking Matthew in for a nap. There was a panicked knock on the bedroom door, and Gilbert jerked to face the door, a low growl rumbling in his chest. _Calm down._ He’d felt so damn on-edge since Francis and Antonio had vanished. The people of the capital had had a pretty good reaction to the news—they were quite upset, some enraged even, but not at Gilbert, so it didn’t matter. _I will protect you,_ he had promised them, and they had applauded him to show their gratitude.

Gilbert leant to kiss Matthew’s forehead. “Rest well, _Neffe_ ,” he whispered, then stepped into the hall where a fellow guardsman stood, eyes ringed with white like a spooked horse.

“Sir,” he said, out of breath after just sprinting up the castle steps, “word from the coast—the jarls are coming with warships!”

Gilbert stared at the guard, and the poor Alpha looked back at his captain—at the unshaven cheeks, the messy hair, the crazed glitter in those feral eyes. He couldn’t say which was scarier, the encroaching enemy or the man in charge of fighting them.

“Send out the summons,” Gilbert ordered, calm voice completely at odds with the beast screaming inside him, ready for blood. “Every Alpha to the capital. Now.” He started to stride away, then stopped to add, “And report back here when you’re done. Protect Matthew.”

The guard blinked. “Yes, sir. And the prince . . . ?”

Gilbert paused. “No,” he replied, a dark smirk curling his lips. “The prince will come with me.”

 

. . .

 

The howl was not the rallying cry Mathias sent up. It was not the keen beckoning Antonio had sung when Francis agreed to search for a new mate. It was at once ferocious and terrified, a mournful wail that echoed through the kingdom, screaming to those who could hear and understand: _Weak! Weak alone! Danger comes! Come now to fight!_

Throughout the kingdom, Alphas stopped what they were doing. Most said a brief farewell to their mates before dashing away; some dropped everything and ran for the capital. Hunts were abandoned, repairs left unfinished. From everywhere, wolves shifted and flowed toward the kingdom’s heart, howling as they ran: _We come! We fight!_

In a village, Alistair Kirkland was trying to figure out how to bake bread, but when he heard the howl, he froze. He’d heard the story of the Promegas. Everyone had. And he’d heard the rumors that there would be war when they returned. He had prayed, silently, that this would not be true.

He wasn’t a big fan of his brother. Some days, he hated him. But that didn’t mean he wanted Arthur to die.

 _Who am I loyal to?_ he thought. _My kin? Or my king?_

He threw himself out the door and sprinted after his packmates. _Arthur is breaking the rules. He’s betraying everyone. We have to stick together. If we don’t, we’ll fall._ Alistair didn’t want to watch his brother die. He hoped the little brat would come to his senses—before it was too late.

 

. . .

 

In the Satin Room of the brothel, Ivan was having wine with his Omegas when the howl came; the hair along the back of his neck lifted at the sound.

Raivis looked up from where he and Feliks sat on the floor. Timidly, he asked, “What was that, sir?”

Ivan gave the boy a faint smile. The tiny Omega was probably his favorite. Nice and tight. And perfectly submissive. Of course, sometimes it was nice to give a smack or two to someone with attitude. That’s what Eduard was for. “A call to arms,” he replied. “I suspect the Scandinavians have come.”

The Omegas all glanced at each other with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, and the pleasure of having a secret. Even Feliks looked almost sly as he finger-combed his hair.

Eduard stood first. “You’re not going to fight, sir?”

Ivan gave him an unfunny smile. “I don’t believe in violence.”

Translation: _I don’t believe in risking my own life for someone else’s cause._

“Well.” Eduard gestured shortly, and the other Omegas stood up. “You can sit here by yourself.” He picked up the mostly full wine bottle from the table and threw it full-force at the window. Glass shattered from both, and wine splashed like blood. “We’re going.”

Ivan stared, flabbergasted. “What in hell—has the whole world lost its mind?”

The Omegas gave no response to that. They were already gone; a rough-legged hawk, meadow pipit, crested tit, bean goose, and mute swan flying against the wind, to freedom.

 

. . .

 

This was the battlefield.

The army, if one could call it that, of Western Eurasia. The Alphas of the Natural way. Wolves with bared fangs alongside men with muskets. No one rode horses. A steed could run toward metal sticks without fear, but they could not face a bloodthirsty predator. The Alphas lined up behind the castle, in the shadow of society, with Gilbert Beilschmidt’s darkening heart at their center.

And opposite them, matching their numbers and then some, standing proud in the sunlight, the Court of Jarls stood with the Promegas, and Scandinavian Alphas lined behind them. No one showed aggression. The wolves stood calm and silent; the birds perched on shoulders. The only angry face was Lovino’s.

Gilbert spoke first. “I see more have caught Arthur Bonnefoy’s madness. I hadn’t realized insanity was so contagious.”

Mathias and Francis joined Lovino in looking pissed off.

Lukas stepped forward, lifting his chin. “We have brought the forces behind us as a secondary tactic. A back-up plan, if you will. We do not wish to fight with you. We only want to ensure that you see reason.”

Gilbert arched an eyebrow, contempt plain. “What reason would that be?”

Arthur stepped forward now. His voice shook with all these eyes on him, but he spoke loud enough to be heard. “It’s not madness. It’s simple equality. Alphas and Omegas should be treated the same. That’s all we want. But Omegas are so put down in the West that I had to leave the kingdom for an Alpha to listen to me. And when the king did try to change things here, his own friend tossed him out.” Arthur scanned the line of soldiers. “Did you know that? Francis and Antonio left because Gilbert refused to let them abolish Naturalism. _Why?_ Do you really want to follow a man who betrays his best friends? Do you really think Omegas deserve to be slaves just because they weren’t born Alphas?”

The words did not fall on deaf ears. The Alphas glanced amongst each other, brows furrowing. Arthur suspected their uncertainty was more for Gilbert than for Naturalism, but it was still good to see.

“He speaks the truth,” Francis said, coming to Arthur’s side. “Do not believe what Gilbert says.”

Gilbert’s teeth seemed sharper than they should have been. He turned on his men to shout, “Don’t listen to them! They’re proud of their Deformity! They want to tear our lives apart!”

“No we don’t!” This was a cry from Feliciano. (On the other side, Ludwig perked up at the sight of his mate.) The little Italian added, “We want everyone to be happy! We’re not Anti-Alphas, we’re Promegas!”

Arthur took Feliciano’s hand, and was surprised to feel a warm, strong grasp on his other side; Lovino had stepped up, and gave Arthur a small, stoically encouraging nod. Between the brothers, his friends, his family, he pronounced, “Anyone, Alpha or Omega, who believes we are all born equal is welcome to join our side.”

For a moment there was nothing, and Gilbert rolled his eyes, but before he could make a derisive remark, a flurry came overhead. A cloud of flapping wings, a flock of Omegas flying from the roof of the castle. Below, some Guards took aim, but Ludwig shoved their muskets down. The Omegas landed all around Arthur, and he recognized some from the capital, and even some from his village, and Feliks with his brothel companions. Feliciano gave a small bounce of glee. Lovino actually smiled. And Arthur did his best not to tear up with pride.

Gilbert shook his head, sneering. “Birds won’t do much against wolves. There’s no equality in that, and there never will be.”

“Maybe not.” This was the deep voice of Ludwig. The blond German stepped away from his pack and met his brother’s gaze. “But they’re brave enough to try. That’s more Alpha than having weapons and throwing your weight around. Courage.” And with that, he turned his back on the defenders of Naturalism and went to stand with his mate.

 _Oh,_ thought Lovino. _So . . . maybe he’s not a total bastard after all._

Gilbert was angry before. Now he was livid. “I don’t care how many people I care about get tainted by this Deformity. I’m not changing my mind. If a wall is strong enough to hold up your home, why would you risk ripping it down? Naturalism works. I will not abandon it.” His lip curled. “So go on then, Arthur.” He stepped briefly out of sight, into the mass of soldiers, and came back with a golden wolf pup dangling from the scruff of the neck. “Fight your war.” He tossed Alfred out onto the battlefield.

Francis and Arthur surged forward, but Mathias grabbed them both. Everyone, even those on Gilbert’s side, were expressing disapproval for the introduction of the prince, but it was the Danish jarl who spoke up.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demanded. “This is no place for a child. You really have lost your damn mind.”

Gilbert shrugged sweetly. “Arthur seems to think that all Alphas in the West are evil. So I thought the first one he should punish is his son. Fitting, isn’t it?”

Mathias’s eyes widened—he hadn’t realized this was the prince. Lukas and Berwald’s normally unreadable faces twisted in open disgust. Gilbert’s ruthlessness was no secret, but to use a child against its mother was utterly insidious.

“I need to go to him.” Arthur looked up at Mathias, then to Lukas, desperate.

“Don’t cross the halfway line,” Lukas told him. “Call him to you. If you go to them, it is war.”

Arthur did not care about the codes of battle right now, he just needed to hold his baby. _It’s been so long . . ._ He didn’t know how he’d ever thought of the prince as annoying. He wanted to pick him up and never, ever put him down.

He stepped out as far as he dared and called, “Alfred, come here. Come here, darling.”

Alfred’s ears perked, and he ran full-speed at Arthur, launching himself at his mother and colliding full-on with Arthur’s chest. The Omega nearly fell over backward, but he stayed up and embraced his wriggling son. Alfred covered Arthur’s cheeks in kisses, whimpering and wagging his tail in euphoria, and at last Arthur’s heart was at ease. The love he felt for his son again fortified him, and he lifted his head to tell Gilbert, “We don’t want to rip down any walls. We don’t want to tear families apart. We just want to be seen as people, not servants or sex slaves. I love and respect my son, and I want that in return. That’s all we want.” Alfred licked a tear from his cheek, and Arthur held him close. Close enough to whisper, “When I fly, run away as fast as you can. Run and hide.”

“Is that it?” Gilbert asked. “A little show of tears, and you expect surrender?”

Arthur shook his head. “Not at all. And since I’m all for equality, keep that in mind. When you cry after you lose this battle, you won’t get any charity.”

Behind him, Lovino added, “But if you pay a handsome fee, we’ll teach you how to wash the blood out of your uniform.”

The gathered Omegas laughed at that, and Gilbert snarled, wolf fangs in a human mouth, a monster. Arthur did not wait; he set Alfred down and took to the sky. Alfred ran off as quick as his short legs would carry him.

Gilbert’s shout was raw, unstrung, _“ATTACK!”_

Mathias glanced down at Lukas, heart racing deliciously. “Stability, _min nat_?”

Lukas shook his head, drew himself up, and bellowed, _“ANGRIBE!”_

The Dane grinned. “Ah, I just love to hear you say it.” And then they were both cream-furred wolves lunging forward to lead the charge.

The Omegas lifted up into the air.

The prince hid behind an outcropping of rock.

And the two sides clashed. Enter the chaotic, the first stages of hell. Everything was wolves and men and guns and swords, teeth and metal, righteous rage. A wolf was vulnerable to a musket, but not when eagles, ospreys, a red kite and a hen harrier swooped down and raked their talons across the soldiers’ faces. The non-predatory birds could not do this, but they found their own use, screaming and singing so loud that Gilbert’s orders could not be heard through the mayhem.

The captain was about to throw away his gun when a wolf blindsided him. He crashed to the ground with the beast on him, biting his rifle like a mad thing, growling savagely. There are moments of pure clarity on the battlefield when time seems to stand still, and this was one of them. Gilbert stared up into the brown she-wolf’s green eyes and he knew without a doubt who this was.

The monster. _Pinning him down . . ._ The abomination. _Pushing inside . . . so much fear . . ._

His heart nearly stopped.

Elizabeta tore the musket from his grasp. She wouldn’t kill this man—she was not a murderer, or she would have killed him years ago—but she would make him pay for the suffering he had caused her and her mate. An eye for an eye.

Gilbert punched her in the face. A right hook to the snout that had her staggering off of him. He shifted, got to his paws, and lunged at her. They rolled thrice, biting and ripping, and he came out on top. This woman had destroyed him, from the inside out. He had never wanted to become this, never thought it possible. It was her. Matthew was sitting by himself because of her. Matthew’s beautiful eyes held sorrow because of her.

No more.

Gilbert shut his jaws on her foreleg and bit down with all the fury and hatred she had infected him with when her unnatural poison burned into him. A sickening, grinding crunch, deafening in his ears—and her leg was broken.

The sound of a wolf’s utter agony was bloodcurdling. It was not a howl. It was a low, base _scream._

Gilbert let her collapse and danced away, dodging wolves locked in battle, men aiming muskets. He was searching now, even as he slashed whatever enemy he could reach. His gaze kept lifting upward, searching for his true enemy, the man who had brought everything terrible into fruition. _Arthur._

The captain was not the only one giving in to the pack mentality. Alistair was having the time of his life, despite the wounds he was collecting. Blood leaked from his left shoulder and both flanks, but his fur was already red, and that was all he could see. _Together strong. Fight danger. Kill._ He bit and clawed without caring who he hurt; years of frustration poured out with his blood.

Abruptly, a bird dropped from the sky and landed hard in front of him. Alistair skidded to a halt, looking down at the raptor—a red kite, struggling to right himself after being stunned by his crash. Lovino had been aiming for a soldier, but the rifle had swung up in the air; he’d only just dodged the bayonet, and lost his balance in the air. Alistair bared bloodstained teeth in a ghastly grin. He would kill this bird, an ugly predatory bird like his brother. Deformed. He would rip its big wings right off.

Lovino didn’t even have time to cry for help before a dark brown wolf plowed into Alistair.

Scot and Spaniard grappled viciously, rising up on their rear legs, chests shoved together, jaws snapping, teeth glancing off each other like clashing swords until Alistair won out. The red wolf’s fangs sank into Antonio’s face and, with a jerk of the head, his right eye was gone in a spurt of scarlet. Antonio screamed, but it morphed into a roar as he fought the temptation to go limp with surrender and instead clawed his way to the top of his agony and struck fast—he slashed the soft skin just beneath Alistair’s jaw.

The red wolf fell back, eyes bulging with fright, his whimpers gurgling, wet with blood seeping from his neck.

Francis came to Antonio’s side now, yelping at the sight of him, but Antonio’s remaining eye was on Lovino. The Omega gave him a lingering stare. The eyes of a raptor were impossible to read, but both bird and wolf understood the meaning. _This doesn’t forgive it all. But thank you._

Above, Arthur had begun to search, as well. He saw Mathias and Lukas fighting back-to-back, in tandem, finding joy in the rhythm of battle. He saw Francis protecting a collapsed Antonio, next to . . . was that Alistair in a pool of blood? _Just get through this. Get through this, and then you can cry and scream and spend a day in bed with Alfred and Matthew, and we can eat the maple sweets he likes, and—_

There. Arthur found the silver wolf, fur stained with the blood of others. Arthur wheeled around, circling over Gilbert, watching him get drawn into fights around him. If he could only get in a good blow, then perhaps Gilbert would truly see Omega strength and call surrender.

Wishful thinking.

Arthur waited, waited for the right moment, waited for Gilbert to be distracted, waited for a straight shot.

_Now!_

He fell into an instinctive kill dive. Talons extended!

Suddenly, Gilbert’s head tipped up, ferocious jaws open wide—he tricked him! Arthur tried to flare his wings, flapping desperately, but he was down, down into the jaws, and they snapped shut on his torso.

The harrier’s scream pierced the air.

This was another moment of stillness, for the soldiers both enemy and friendly. They saw, they knew, but they did not intervene. Perhaps the significance of it held them back. No one would ever know for sure, and many would regret it until the day they died.

The silver wolf bit down harder, adjusting his grip, snapping hollow bones. The harrier beat the wolf with his wings, agonized, terrified, trying in vain to free himself. But Gilbert was right. There was no equality between bird and wolf. The Alpha shook the Omega, and everyone knew what would come next. The way wolves kill small prey. Bite it. Shake it, to stun it. Then bite it again, hard enough to kill it.

The gravity of this ended the moment of stillness. Lovino screeched at Gilbert, plunging, but he was too far away and the thermals were not on his side. Below, at the advantage, King Francis Bonnefoy no longer froze. He no longer feared. He did not think, he thundered across the field and slammed into Gilbert. The captain lost his hold on Arthur as he and the king tumbled. Gilbert’s opponent wasn’t Francis, wasn’t even the king. He was just a wolf. Gilbert was just a wolf. He had nearly left the man within him behind. He was the beast. He had no use for people, for morals, for love. Love?

_Matthew._

The second of distraction was enough for Francis. The French Alpha secured a throat hold, and Gilbert stopped struggling. _Kill me. End this. Please, just kill me._

He looked into Francis’s blue eyes. The fury could not win out against the memory of friendship. Francis could not kill Gilbert. They had grown up together. Gilbert had saved Francis’s life countless times. Even after all of this, Francis couldn’t do it. Not because of cowardice, because of love.

Francis dropped Gilbert and backed away.

The German Alpha did not rise. In fact, he bowed even lower. And he whimpered. _Matthew. I’m so sorry._ Arthur’s blood was sweet copper on his tongue. Matthew would grow up to serve Alphas. Under the Natural way, he could get a mate who raped him, beat him, whipped him. There were no laws against it. Matthew could be killed by some ignorant Alpha given power by a flawed system. Naturalism had not kept Gilbert from getting hurt. If it could not even protect him, what could it ever do for little Matthew? Who the hell would keep him safe?

Gilbert shifted back to his human form, hung his head, and said, “I surrender.”

Lovino adjusted his trajectory and landed beside Arthur. All around them, Alphas and Omegas were returning to human form and throwing down their weapons, but Lovino didn’t notice. Arthur lay, his harrier body mangled, bleeding. His chest lifted and fell, but only barely. His eyes were open but did not see.

He was dying.

Lovino shifted and tried to rip off a piece of his shirt to bind the wounds, but he wasn’t strong enough, damn it, so he took off the whole thing and wrapped Arthur up in it. “Help him!” he snarled to the people standing around, watching. “Somebody fucking help him!”

Lukas shook his head slowly. Mathias wiped his eyes and looked away. Berwald held a weeping Tino close, as did Ludwig to Feliciano. Francis stared at the tiny, dying body of his mate, his wife, the mother of his son, and fell to his knees—or he would have, if Antonio had not caught him. Francis buried his face in Antonio’s shoulder. Lovino held Arthur, but it was not Arthur anymore. It was just a dead bird.

Francis and Lovino both closed their eyes and sobbed.

 

. . .

 

That night, after the wails of grief, after the binding of wounds, after the burying of dead, after the warships returned to the north and the Western soldiers to their homes, Francis went to Gilbert in the dungeon. The cell was small, dark, bleak. Wet stone and mouldy straw. Gilbert sat in the corner, knees drawn up, head in his hands, but he looked up when the king entered. His face was wet, cheeks stained with tears.

Francis stood in the doorway of his cell. No guards accompanied him. He looked in with an expressionless face.

The silence stretched.

“I’m sorry,” Gilbert whispered.

Francis’s face did not change. “You could apologize to me one thousand times and it would not change what you did.”

“I know.” This was barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”

Francis looked away for a moment. “They will hang you. Everyone wants to see you die.” A pause. “Unfortunately, you escaped.”

Gilbert stared.

Francis stepped aside in the doorway, lifting a hand to gesture to the open space. “You escaped and ran off into the night.”

Slowly, Gilbert got to his feet and stepped toward the door. Francis watched him, impassive, but when Gilbert moved to go by, Francis locked a hand around Gilbert’s throat, reminding him of the death Francis had denied him on the battlefield. And now, again. Francis narrowed his eyes, gaze sharp and bright as sapphires. “You,” the king said, slow and precise, “were never seen again.”

Gilbert spared a thought to the sleeping boy above. There would be no goodbye. _It’s for the best._ He forced a small nod.

Francis released him and turned away. “Go.”

There was so much Gilbert could have said, but it was too late for any of it. So he said nothing, strode down a passage known to only himself, Antonio, and Francis. They had played here, as children. _I’m the king, I’m in charge! I’m the advisor, I’ll help you! I’m the captain, I’m the bravest!_ Tears came to his eyes as he heard those voices, so innocent. He didn’t deserve this freedom. He should just go to the barracks and tell them to kill him.

He was not the bravest anymore.

Into the lifeless night, the silver wolf ran. He ran out of the capital, out of his home, but he had to look back, toward the window of the pink-painted room. But there was no light shining. There was only the wolf and the moon. Loneliness welled in his heart, but he did not howl. He just disappeared silently into the forest shadows, and the night was still once more.


	24. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting and kudos... kudosing? (Nailed it.) Your support has been so motivational through this rabid monster of a fic. I'm not sure it would've been finished without the lovely comments I received along the way. Well, I probably would've finished it eventually out of guilt, but it certainly wouldn't have been this quick! So thank you all very, very much :D
> 
> Oh, and do keep an eye out in the coming months. A sequel looms on the horizon...

_**ONE YEAR LATER** _

 

“The discrimination of another based upon their gender or sex

or their attraction to other genders and sexes

is illegal without exception.

All people, Alphas and Omegas, are equal.”

_—Francis Bonnefoy, High Alpha of Western Eurasia_

It was Promega Day.

Throughout Western Eurasia, from the bustling cities to the smallest villages, work was halted in favor of celebrations. The guards did not train, the servants did not clean, and the bakers—having made extra the previous day and night—did not bake. Stalls were set up in the capital, lining the inner streets as they would on a wedding day, but they were not only Alphas. Omegas, too, sold wares. Some Alphas browsed the hand-woven baskets and sculptures and pastries without discrimination; others avoided the Omega stands with disapproval darkening their eyes. Among the few blissfully unaware folks were clusters of Alphas in silent disagreement. Those who sneered behind the Omegas’ backs were given just-as-nasty looks from the supporters. Some Omegas noticed, some did not. No one argued outright. This—wordless glares—was the closest they had come to peace.

In the beginning, there was violence. The laws changed quickly, quicker than they should have in the opinion of some. The High Alpha had given a speech notable for several reasons: it was over an hour long, it nullified every law favoring Alphas over Omegas, and—overlooked by many but important nonetheless—it was the first public address Francis Bonnefoy had given without Gilbert and Antonio at his sides. There had been no outbursts during the speech, but that night two Omegas had been beaten for walking the streets in the dark. The Alphas responsible were found and gaoled, but the next night it happened again. The cells overflowed with Alphas—some who actively protested the rules by breaking them, others guilty of forcing their mates into bed. These reports came at a startling rate, in the first few months. The more Omegas spoke out, the more it encouraged those trapped by abusive mates to do the same. The guards were run ragged, patrolling at night to protect Omegas and dragging often defiant leches to prison during the day. The laws couldn’t be enforced at all in the places without a guard presence; Omegas began flying in from far-flung villages, seeking asylum from close-minded Alphas. Word began to spread of the development of something better than a Royal Guard—a force to police the people and investigate crimes, separate from the affairs of royalty. _To serve the people, not the ruler._ Alphas and Omegas were both encouraged to join the experimental training program. Ludwig was given credit for the idea, but in truth Emil Bondevik was behind it. In fact, the transition to better times took much influence from the Scandinavian Omega; he had agreed to stay behind when his comrades returned to the North. _Only for a short time,_ he had said. _Only until I see that the West is on its feet and well on the path to equality._ _This will not be my home forever._ But today, on the first annual Promega Day, he was still there under the warm Western sun.

Emil was, at present, sitting on a bench in the square, watching passersby and, as always, thinking. Before Lovino and Arthur came to Scandinavia, he had been making excellent progress on his latest book. He had not put down a single sentence this past year, so caught up in bettering the West he had been—the only writing he’d done was in the form of essays to propose new laws, and letters to his family. He didn’t feel as guilty as he thought he would about letting his studies fall by the wayside. He felt proud of what they’d accomplished here; it was the closest he had ever felt to parenthood. _I’ve sired some of this peace_ , he thought, giving a faint smile to a pair of nestlings skipping by with colored ropes. This felt more fulfilling than his research; black statistics on white paper could not compare to the satisfaction of witnessing wounds—physical and otherwise—scar over and heal. He missed his family, his brother and friends, but this place needed him more than they did. He wrote to them often, even to Mathias, who joked in his first letter that Emil only missed him for his knot. It was true that, at first, Emil had struggled to find someone suitable to help him through his Heats. Fortunately, he made the acquaintance of a Russian Alpha who claimed he had experience in sex as a trade (the West had outlawed prostitution just as Scandinavia did). They quickly entered a mutually beneficial agreement, and so far it was working out nicely. Emil had no idea where Ivan was right now. Filling himself with vodka, probably. (Correct.) Emil breathed a sigh and looked up at the clouds, light fluffy ones. A beautiful day. If only Arthur was here to enjoy it. Emil missed Arthur in a different way than he missed the Court. He loved his family, for one—he had only just begun to feel fondness for Arthur. More than anything, Emil mourned the loss of Arthur’s devotion, his initiative. What could have been achieved with minds like Emil and Arthur’s put together? They would never know. There were countless tragedies for the heart, but that was one for the mind.

Not far from where Emil sat, in Antonio’s garden, Matthew and Alfred Bonnefoy played. Matthew chased after his pup brother on clumsy legs, the pair of them giggling and yipping with glee. They had stopped weeping at night; Alfred had given up sniffing around the castle. The scent of Arthur faded, and with it faded the memory of Mother. For Alfred, it was only the bittersweet swell in his chest when he sang to the moon. For Matthew, it was the vague gleam of green eyes, soon joined by a pair of crimson ones. He had learned not to ask about his other uncle. His father had told him outright: _He is gone and never coming back. Forget about him._ And, ever obedient, Matthew had begun to do just that. It wasn’t a choice, obviously, but when no one spoke of Gilbert, when Matthew no longer saw him every day, when his developing brain was every day filled with new things (letters! numbers! a whole world to be had on paper!) there was little hope to the memory lasting. The white wolf slowly but surely faded to mist in the back of his curly-haired head.

In the house, the king watched his children with red-rimmed eyes. He had never had a more difficult year, and the fact that he had made it through was at first cause for celebration. But when he tried to feel happiness that he’d made it out alive, he could only think of those who hadn’t been so lucky. His wine-to-tears ratio was improving. He’d been tempted, at the start, to drown himself in spirits and be done with it. But he had his sons. He had Antonio. And he had his kingdom. They depended on him. It was the least he could do to help them. If he didn’t care whether he lived or died, he might as well live if it was beneficial to others. Granted, it wasn’t the best attitude to have, but he hadn’t run a blade across his skin, so it was good enough.

He was getting better now. Time was indeed the great healer, though admittedly it had its limit. It had healed Antonio’s face as best it could, but that turned out to be a thick, grotesque scar from his temple to his cheek, through his eyebrow and what had once been his eye. Francis had heard the whispers; he knew Antonio had, too. _There goes his pretty face. No more handsome advisor._ Antonio had taken to angling his head, always turning away so Francis would not have to look at the scar. Francis hadn’t told him, but he didn’t mind the scar. It was physical proof of retribution. Francis envied him, in fact. He wished he had been made as ugly on the outside as he felt on the inside. He wished he had only lost a part of himself, rather than an entire person he loved.

He knew that Antonio longed to fill the place left by Arthur. And, in some capacity, he had. Most nights found them together under the covers; sometimes Francis held him, sometimes—more and more, recently—he let the Spaniard’s warm arms wrap around him. It was a different kind of comfort, a different sense of security. They hadn’t had sex, but they had kissed, more than once, albeit never sober. The last time had been the most intense, Francis pressing Antonio back onto the bed, hands on his chest, Antonio’s knees squeezing Francis’s hips, and Francis thinking _Maybe I could, maybe, if I just_ —but then he opened his eyes and he saw Antonio’s face. His friend. His fellow Alpha. When Francis pulled back, Antonio opened his eye, and Francis couldn’t keep from staring at the other, the scarred one; it always tried to open along with the other, but it couldn’t. Antonio knew what he was looking at, because he turned his head, burying the sullied side in the pillow. They had not shared a bed that night, but they had the next, snuggled close, pretending the past was only a bad dream.

Now Antonio came to Francis’s side, gazing out the window. Francis glanced at his advisor and gave a small smile. Antonio returned it. Both of them looked sad, even though both were trying not to.

All at once, Antonio said, “Do you think we will ever—?” He cut himself off, ducking his head bashfully. He had not intended to speak at all.

Francis’s heart had once been so torn that it held itself together by the thinnest thread of tissue. But now, after a year of working harder than he ever had in his kingly life, his heart was closer to a whole. It didn’t beat without causing pain, but it gave him more life now than it had for quite some time. Today, the anniversary of Arthur’s death, he wouldn’t cry anymore. Arthur wouldn’t want it. Tears were no way to celebrate.

So Francis reached out to take Antonio’s hand. Giving those warm fingers a squeeze, he said, “Never say never. But . . . we must wait and see, _mon ami._ My heart has not yet healed.”

They embraced, long enough for their broken hearts to share a strenuous beat, then stood together, arm around the other’s waist, joined at the hip as they had always been, and watched the future play in the flowers.

Across the capital, to the northeast, where the aristocrats lived in homes with rooms so fancy one couldn’t enter them, a mansion sat apart from the rest. It was not the biggest, but it was the loveliest, because from it beautifully haunting music streamed out into the afternoon air. Its side doors were opened, and through these doors was the music room. Sofas had been brought in for the guests. Ludwig and Feliciano sat on one, the Italian Omega’s hands resting on his rounded belly, rubbing gentle circles to soothe the growing baby within. The other sofa held Elizabeta, fingertips absently rubbing the scarred bite mark on her arm, and Lovino. He looked on without any expression on his face, completely at odds to the storm of emotion inside him, a storm only worsened by the powerful music Roderich drew from the piano. These notes had been written for Arthur. This whole day was inspired by Arthur. If not for that _britanno_ , where would Lovino be right now?

He’d spent his whole life wishing he was something else, and Arthur had taught him to stop wishing and start changing things, instead. He would never stop owing him for that. For everything.

Roderich’s eyes were closed behind his spectacles as he swayed with the song. As the music grew, pain flowed from pale fingers onto black and white keys, the pain of being forced to leave your home, the pain of being shunned for the body you were born in, the pain of loving one you were not allowed to have, the pain of dying for a future you would never get to see. Feliciano wept, and Ludwig wrapped strong arms around his mate even as tears gathered in his own eyes. Elizabeta stood, stepped outside, and fell to all fours. She tipped her muzzle back and let a mournful howl rise up, a call of loneliness to those who would never be able to respond.

Lovino wiped a tear away before it could fall. Arthur smiled at him, eyes bright as summer. They had buried him in the birch grove where purple flowers grew. Lovino visited him often, but he didn’t need to. He saw him everywhere he went.

Lovino was barely aware of standing, walking outside, shifting to his bird form. It was a wonderful day for flying; his wings took him into a thermal almost immediately. With the music swelling below, Lovino took to the skies, remembering the flight over the frozen ocean, the fear and the courage, and the happiness he had felt with Arthur, the match of his passion found in another. He flapped his wings, lifting higher as the last pure notes of the piano ran out, as Elizabeta’s voice fell silent. He flew upward, upward, soaring past the clouds. Up here, where no one could see him, where only heaven remained above, he parted his beak and keened. And he thought maybe, just maybe, a harrier called in return.

Then Lovino dropped back down, out of the clouds. He would give in to that call someday, but not for a while. He had work to do, memories to make, friends to cherish, family to grow. For now, he would stay down here, with them. One day he would follow that haunting call, but for now he would pretend it was just an echo.

 

 

 

_The End._


End file.
